


Holocene

by BeatnikFreak



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: AU, Blanket Forts, Bottom Enjolras, Christmas, Christmas Dinner, Fluff, Gift Fic, London, M/M, Modern AU, White Christmas, baths, cutesy cute i sicken myself, enjolras' parents are dickheads, snowball fights, so christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:30:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeatnikFreak/pseuds/BeatnikFreak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras assumed he was going to be alone at Christmas. He wasn't expecting another of his friends to be spending the holiday on their own as well.</p><p>"I think this is the best Christmas I've ever had."</p><p>"I'm glad."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holocene

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PaintedSarcasm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaintedSarcasm/gifts).



> This was written for the Miserable Holidays Gift Exchange.
> 
> So I was listening to Holocene by Bon Iver on the first day of the university holidays... two weeks later, here we are. This is probably the most saccharine thing I will ever write; I dunno, man, I fucking love Christmas. It's also a bit of a love letter to London. A bit.
> 
> I hope you like it, PaintedSarcasm, because I've put off two overdue essays for this. Er. 
> 
> Merry Christmas!

Christmas was going to be lonely for Enjolras.

Well, that was a lie. He knew it was a lie, at least on one level, because he had the Amis. He always had the Amis, the big ragtag bunch of maniacs he called his best friends.

But on another level, he was going to be on his own a lot.

He tried not to think about the phone call he’d received from his father a few days before. Enjolras Senior had always had a gift for cutting people where it hurt.

_“Fucking commie scum… bringing disrepute to the family… limp-wristed shirt-lifters and degenerates… not welcome in our home any more.”_

It wasn’t as if he particularly liked his family; no, since he’d gone to university, family Christmases had been a trial of veiled insults and constant interrogations. The only upsides were seeing his beloved grandparents and the housekeeper, Yvonne. He usually spent most of the holiday season hiding in the conservatory with his mothers’ parents, or sat on the kitchen counter, occasionally being passed bits of dinner like he was still a ten year old with scabbed knees and gappy teeth.

But he wouldn’t get that this year. No, his father had made that one particularly clear.

Apparently, the last demonstration he’d been seen at had been the last straw.

_“Parading about with a bunch of gays and pinko freaks – who do you think you are?”_

It had been upsetting, not that he’d let on at the time. No, the best way to deal with his father had always been cold defiance. And Enjolras was very good at that.

Still, there was no sense in dwelling on it now. He would be spending his Christmas in the city he loved, away from his ridiculous parents, surely there was some positive in that?

Well, other than the fact that all of his friends were going back to their own families for the big day?

Sometimes, Enjolras thought, stabbing a pen through the stress ball on his desk, life really was a bitch.

The Musain was always comforting, not least on a icy December evening with the wind blowing the rain almost horizontal. Enjolras stepped into the café-cum-bar with a sigh of relief, leaving his dripping umbrella in one of the storage racks Musichetta thankfully left by the door.

“Evening, Enj,” greeted Jehan, who was ensconced in a deep armchair with a book, a huge mug of tea and what looked like the remainder of a piece of carrot cake.

“Evening, Jehan,” replied the journalist, plonking down in the chair opposite his. “What is it today? Yeats again?”

The writer smiled, marking his place. “No, but close. TS Eliot. Have to pay my dues every once in a while.”

Enjolras smiled. “Naturally.” Embarrassingly, his stomach took that moment to rumble loudly. Jehan gave him a trademark unimpressed look – strong actions, Enjolras thought idly, from a man who had once lived for a week off Tellytubby Toast when helping write a few episodes of the show. “Busy day, you know?” He said, shrugging helplessly. “One of the team has glandular fever, so I ended up writing up her feature on the Mandela tributes alongside my piece about education.”

“How many words?”

“In total?” Enjolras thought, stretching in his seat. “God, about two thousand? Nothing to you, of course,” Jehan rolled his eyes, but a small smile quirked his lips at the compliment – “but having to phone some very uncommunicative Department of Education secretaries really wasn’t a productive use of my day, let’s put it that way.”

“I can think of few things worse than that,” said Jehan, smiling behind his tea cup. “C’mon, order yourself some food… You don’t want Combeferre on your back.”

Defeated, Enjolras reached for the menu. “Please don’t tell him I skipped lunch… god knows, he thinks I’m still twelve or something.”

“Blown up any more microwaves recently?” asked Jehan, nose back in his book.

“Point taken.”

Combeferre and Feuilly both sloped in as Enjolras had just finished giving his order to the waitress. Feuilly, looking dog-tired, made immediately for the bar, while the bespectacled teacher dropped down into one of the spare chairs at the table. “Evening, all.”

“Good day?” Enjolras asked, sipping at his tea.

“Put it this way,” Combeferre groaned, taking off his glasses to clean them, “I am so glad the end of term is coming.” The tall man taught politics and philosophy at a private school down in Wimbledon. “Jenny and Tom – sorry, two of my IB kids – got into an argument in all three of the classes I taught them today.”

“Is this the pair you’re convinced will end up together?” asked Jehan, amused.

“Half the year have bets on it. I came this close to sticking a sprig of mistletoe over their heads. Christ, it’s like they don’t know whether to yell at each other or tear each other’s clothes off.”

“Sounds like your approach to dating, Enj,” said Feuilly, appearing with two pints, one of which he handed to a grateful Combeferre.

“Fuck off, Feuilly,” replied Enjolras without rancour.

The conversation had shifted by the time Grantaire arrived, a streak of cobalt blue paint over one cheekbone. Feuilly and Combeferre were animatedly discussing, of all things, Celtic languages, while Jehan was buried deep in TS Eliot again, letting out rapturous sighs every once in a while. Meanwhile, Enjolras’ food had arrived.

“Evening,” the artist said, plopping down in the armchair next to Enjolras’. The others looked up and returned greetings, Feuilly high-fiving Grantaire across the table.

“Hello, R,” said Enjolras, swallowing a mouthful of sandwich. It had taken years for them to get to this point, of easy friendship; few of the Amis would ever forget the caustic arguments between the idealist and the cynic during their university days. Luckily, by the end of second year the arguments had become a basis for a friendship rather than a block to it, and they’d remained close ever since, even if they did still deride the other’s political beliefs loudly and regularly.

And they’d both changed since their first meeting at university. Enjolras was not quite so naïve in his idealism, nor so casually cruel. He was also a little less straightlaced, or so Courfeyrac took great joy in telling him. (“Jesus, the angels began to sing that day you finally brought someone home…”) And Grantaire? Grantaire was less darkened by his troubles, less self-destructive. The drinking had gotten to a point of no return in the two years after he’d finished his art degree, pulling him into a spiral his friends had feared he wouldn’t get out of.

But he had. He’d clawed his way out of hell and now… now here he was, a successful artist clearly on his way back from another commission.

Enjolras supposed they’d both become a little more balanced.

He pointed at the streak of blue. “What’s the project today?”

Grantaire reached up to his face, and then smiled. “Expectant mother wanting her nursery painted. Given me free reign, which is nice.”

“What are you doing for it, then?” Grantaire’s smile widened, his face lighting up. “They’re Scandis, so I decided to riff a bit on that.” He gestured expansively with his hands in the way he only could when he was talking about something he adored. “I’ve got one wall as a seascape with icebergs and polar bears – hence this,” he gestured at the paint on his cheek, “and then it shifts around into a fjord and into a little elvish village thing with trees going up to the ceiling.” He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out his phone, calling up a couple of pictures. “Here, it’s almost done. Just need to sort out the sky and a few details.”

Enjolras took the phone. He never stopped being amazed by just how _good_ an artist Grantaire was. He quite envied this unborn child their beautiful nursery, with its stunning vista of ice and snow and forest. “If I ever have children,” he said lightly, but seriously, “you’re doing the nursery.”

A half smile pulled up Grantaire’s mouth. “I’ll take that as a compliment. I’ll start drawing up barricades staffed by talking animals, because, let’s face it, any child with your DNA is going to be revolting against the system before it can read.”

Enjolras stuck his tongue out at the artist, who just grinned and leant forward to steal a chip off his plate.

By the time the waitress had come to take his plate away, Enjolras and Grantaire were talking about exhibitions.

“There’s a _fantastic_ one about revolutionary art on until the end of December,” Grantaire said excitedly, and Enjolras felt himself perking up. “Knew that would get your attention. I went to see it the other day, they’ve got a massive display about the impact of Liberty Leading the People –“ Enjolras let out an involuntary sigh – “yes, we all know you wank to that painting, let’s move on –“ Enjolras hit him over the head. “Seriously, though, they’ve got some really cool stuff, loads of Spanish Civil War propaganda and I know you’ve got a ton of that on your walls at home.”

“Now that does sound good,” said Enjolras absentmindedly. “I might have to go to that. Haven’t anything better to be doing, after all.”

“You not going home for Christmas?” Grantaire asked, trying to be lighthearted.

Enjolras shook his head, curls falling into his eyes. “No. My...” he trailed off. Actually, he really didn’t think he could talk about this right now. No, not now, not in the warmth of the Musain, where it was easier to pretend everything was going to be fine, that everything was fine. He bit his lip, looking down at his boots. “No, I’m staying here.”

Grantaire nodded, mercifully not probing further. Uncharacteristic of him, Enjolras noted vaguely, but he was grateful for the artist’s sudden tact. “I’m not going home either,” he offered, then shrugged. “You know how it is.”

Enjolras nodded, remembering someone telling him about the toxic environment Grantaire had grown up in and how it didn’t help with his recovery.

“Seeing as we’re both in London over the holidays, we could always do something,” the dark haired man said, slightly tentatively, as if afraid of being rebuffed. “If you wanted to, that is.”

The uncertainty in his voice – and the invitation – finally dragged Enjolras’ eyes away from his bootcaps. “No, that would be…” He swallowed, looking straight at Grantaire, and found himself being totally honest. “That would be nice.”

Grantaire smiled, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners, and Enjolras found that he couldn’t help but return the gesture.

The Amis’ yearly Christmas party had become a thing of legend over the past couple of years. Noone would ever forget 2009, when Marius had ended up duct-taped to the ceiling, or 2011, when Combeferre had gotten uncharacteristically drunk on Eponine’s decidedly shady bottle of schnapps and surprised everyone with an uncanny Bing Crosby impression for most of the night. As for the Great Christmas Pudding Accident of 2010 – well, Joly and Bossuet had lost their deposit on that flat.

This year it was Marius and Cosette hosting, in their stupidly big townhouse that Cosette’s father had bequeathed them as a wedding present. And so it was that the Amis, dressed in their best festivewear, had descended en masse upon Pimlico (what kind of twenty five year old lived in fucking _Pimlico_ , Bahorel had demanded several times) on the 21st of December.

Combeferre had tactfully reminded Marius to move all breakable and valuable items away from the public rooms.

The whole herd of them turned up at the door, with Courf pressing the doorbell. A small pause, then Marius opened the door, lips already forming a greeting.

Marius, however, did not get to finish said greeting, for he found himself nearly knocked over by the rush of twenty somethings in party outfits who really should know better. Somewhere in the middle of it all, someone (who sounded distinctly like Bahorel) screamed, Noddy Holder style, “IT’S CHRIIIISTMAAAAS!”

Enjolras, near the back, helped Marius up from his shellshocked position against the entrance hall wall, holding out a bottle of wine. “They’ll never change.”

Marius laughed, a little weakly, and took the offering. “That they won’t.”

The kitchen (which was really far too large for anyone, let alone a pair of newlyweds) was already filled with noise as the Pontmercys passed out glasses of champagne. (“Present from that stalker of Papa’s,” Cosette confided to Enjolras. “Wants to atone, or something, _apparently_.”)

At half seven, the oven started dinging, and Cosette ushered them all into the dining room, the tiny woman somehow managing to command the hordes in a way that her six foot husband could only dream of. Enjolras found himself with Grantaire on one side and Combeferre on the other.

Bossuet looked with horror around him. “Oh my god, we’ve grown up.” He turned to Joly, clutching his arm. “Joly, we’ve grown up. We’re having dinner parties. Help.”

A moment of shocked silence descended upon the group, before Marius stumbled into the room with a  dish of roast potatoes. Cosette followed, holding a majestic roast goose in her arms. Bahorel’s face turned into that of a man seeing the love of life for the first time.

This expression was shared by everyone once they’d taken a bite.

“Cosette, that is amazing,” said Feuilly reverently.

“Oh, don’t direct the compliments at me. Marius made all this. I can’t cook to save my life.”

Everyone in the room turned to stare at Pontmercy, who, true to form, blushed.

“Christ,” Grantaire broke the silence, “what next? Bossuet’s secretly a tap dancer?”

Everyone laughed, including Bossuet, who took that moment to nearly choke on a mouthful of carrots. Bahorel thumped him squarely on the back, which seemed to do the job.

Joly just looked on in exasperation, taking a deep pull of his wine.

Midway through dessert, Courf dinged his knife against his glass. “Right, you horrible lot. I think it’s a fine time to say a big thank you to our marvellous hosts and unlikely chef, Mr and Mrs Fauchelevent-“

“Is that joke ever going to get old?” asked Marius, from his position with his head on the table.

“Never, sweet Pontmercy. Anyway, let’s have a big cheer for our favourite married couple!”

“For our only married couple,” muttered Enjolras, and Grantaire leant over. “No, I think you and Combeferre count.”

“Oh, fuck off R,” he replied, but it was lost in the cheer erupting around the table.

“MERRY CHRISTMAS!” yelled Gavroche, pulling a party popper that let out far more streamers than any legal version of that item would do.

(Feuilly bore his headful of coloured paper with dignity.)

As Enjolras and Combeferre helped clear the plates, they braced themselves for the inevitable war cry.

“PRESENTS!” yelled Courf, leading the charge to the Christmas tree.

The wreckage of wrapping paper, sellotape and ribbons that had resulted within half an hour was shunted to one side, everyone piling their much treasured gifts into a safer room. Part of Enjolras very much wanted to read through the new history book that Jehan had given him, but the desire to join his friends was too great.

In the living room, chaos had not quite descended. Feuilly and Jehan were apparently playing Eponine at cards; never a good idea when you considered her family background. Bahorel and Grantaire were very badly playing the piano, while Courfeyrac was attempting to waltz Cosette around the room, her head thrown back with mirth. Bossuet had also joined the noble quest, trying to spin Musichetta about the place. Marius, already a little bit tipsy on mulled wine, bless his freckly and awkward soul, meanwhile, was sprawled on the sofa, laughing his head off at the show, alongside Joly. Gavroche, with the Pontmercy family cat on his lap, was sat in a corner with his camera, taking photos of the spectacle.

“Feeling festive yet?” asked Combeferre from beside him as he leant against the wall, smiling slightly.

“Maybe a little,” he replied, raising his eyes upwards as if to gesture at the Santa hat Bossuet had gifted him with earlier. The taller man’s lips lifted at one corner. “Besides, it’s early days yet.” He took a sip from his glass of wine.

“Are you sure you don’t want to-“

He pried his eyes away from his motley crew of friends. “’Ferre, as touched as I really am that you would have me over for Christmas, I don’t want to intrude. And besides… I think I could do with a bit of… reflection space, if that makes sense.”

The teacher nodded. “Yes, it does. And I just wanted to check.”

Enjolras smiled, reaching up to clasp his best friend’s shoulder. “And I’m grateful.”

A couple of hours later, the usual process of degeneration had occurred. Eponine was dancing with Bahorel in a way that certainly wasn’t suitable for children under the age of twelve, while Bossuet and Courf seemed to be having a ‘who can sing along to the Pogues louder’ competition. Marius, very definitely drunk at this point, was sprawled on the floor by Cosette’s chair, hugging her legs, while she very carefully painted Combeferre’s nails. Combeferre did not seem to have any problems with this. Jehan was skipping about the place (wearing fairy wings, for reasons no one knew), Joly on his heels because _he had to catch the Christmas fairy_. Downstairs, on the patio, Musichetta and Grantaire were having a cigarette, the smoke swirling up into the black night. Feuilly, finally, was duelling Gavroche with a pair of toy swords whose origin no one seemed to know.  

He needed a minute, a moment of quiet to just go and be still and silent and think. He silently exited the room, making his way upstairs. He remembered that one of the many spare bedrooms (honestly, Cosette’s father had been so transparent in buying them this house – clearly, he wanted grandchildren) had a window seat.

Right up at the top of the house, it was much quieter. The room was dark, only lit by the city glow streaming in through the large window. He sat down on the window seat, gazing out at London, at the city he really did love.

He didn’t know why it bothered him so much that he couldn’t go home for Christmas. It wasn’t as if he particularly liked his parents; no, that was for sure. His father was a dyed in the wool capital-C Conservative who liked fox hunting, money and casual wage slavery. His mother, on the other hand, was weak-minded, toeing the line with everything his awful father said and just generally being a Tory socialite stereotype from about three decades ago.

She’d cried when he came out.

To be honest, that had been the end of his relationship with his parents.

Still, it hurt to be physically cut off like that.

Really hurt.

“Not much of a white Christmas, is it?” came a voice behind him as he sat on the wide window seat, looking out at the rain.

“Not unless by ‘white’ you mean ‘grey and miserable’.” He turned around, smiling slightly at Grantaire.

“Mind if I sit?” Enjolras shook his head, moving up slightly. “Now, I know you’ve grown up. Six years ago, you’d have sniffed haughtily and shifted as far away from me as possible.”

“Fuck off, R.”

Grantaire laughed and sat down next to him, folding his legs up with a grace that reminded Enjolras of the shorter man’s days as a dancer. Back in the days when he’d seen the man as little more than a drunk, cynical waste of space. A long time ago, to be honest.

“I wasn’t that bad, was I?” he asked, after a long pause. Grantaire laughed again. “Only at the very beginning. You’d warmed up by second year.”

“Right.” Still feeling vaguely discomfited, Enjolras went silent. The pair of them continued to watch the rain falling on London, the sound of Christmas songs floating up from downstairs. It was curiously peaceful, here, with Grantaire at his side, smelling faintly of paint and nutmeg. Comforting, almost, to have someone by his side who didn’t question why he was alone at the party, choosing to stare out at the dark and rainy city instead of carousing downstairs.

He didn’t know how long they sat there, in the dark with the raindrops catching the light. But eventually, Grantaire shifted beside him.

“C’mon, let’s go downstairs. Rejoin the madness.” Grantaire whipped up onto his feet, then held his hand out to Enjolras, who took it, allowing himself to be pulled up.

He found himself smiling as they made their way back downstairs, and that smile was not ended as Gavroche rushed up to him and draped a length of tinsel around his neck, Combeferre (whose nails were now an absolutely _darling_ shade of sparkly red) handing him a glass of something. He was smiling as he found himself being spun around the room by Musichetta, and as he tried some godawful alcoholic concoction of Courf’s. He smiled as the room blurred a little around the edges, singing along to Christmas songs with his friends, with his _family_ , this daft bunch of nutcases and their ridiculous outfits.

(In the morning, he’d find pictures of him dancing with his head thrown back, a bright smile across his features, a flush on his cheeks.)

It was Christmas, and he was happy. Tipsy and happy. Happy to sprawl on the sofa with Cosette and Musichetta, laughing about nothing of any consequence and taking stupid selfies. Happy to see Feuilly, Joly and Eponine doing some sort of Gaelic jig, Joly whipping his gangly limbs up in the most ridiculous mess of legs and arms he’d ever seen. Happy to see Marius letting his one-time roommate waltz him around the room, laughing like a drain. Happy to see Bahorel swinging Jehan up onto his shoulders, the poet laughing gaily as he dangled a sprig of mistletoe over everyone’s heads. (Combeferre went scarlet when Eponine leaned forward to peck him on the lips, while Enjolras tried not to laugh as both the girls on the sofa with him leant forward to kiss him on the cheeks.) Happy to see Grantaire now fighting Combeferre with the toy swords, Courf singing the Pirates of the Caribbean theme tune loudly, before leaping onto a chair to declare that he was the Captain of this ship and all should bow to him. (Of course, Marius was the only one to actually bow.) Happy to see Bossuet sneaking Gavroche a drink and a packet of Haribo. Happy to be lying under the piano with Courf and Combeferre, watching the strings move and shudder as Grantaire and Cosette led them in a carol concert.

(Quite why Joly ended up out on the patio ‘making snow angels’, no one would ever know.)

When the Pontmercys finally kicked them out (after the police had come a second time to complain about the noise), the lot of them staggered down the street to find a bus stop, Courf, Bahorel and Bossuet determinedly singing Shakin Stevens, and he grinned, throwing back his head to look up at the night sky.

“I fucking love our Christmas parties,” he said, throwing his arm around the nearest person to him, and Grantaire laughed, returning the embrace. Even sober, his eyes sparkled with the vim he always embodied in social settings. “Me too, Apollo. Me too.”

And as he made his way down the street to his flat at three in the morning, still wearing the Santa hat, he let out a loud laugh, for this was Christmas, and though he would wake up in a mere four hours with his mouth tasting like Baileys and Sambuca and his hair filled with glitter, it would all be worth it.

Enjolras gazed out of the window in his office, idling tapping his fingers against his desk as he watched the rain fall. Down on the street below, families were rushing past, small children in woollen hats and mittens skipping between different bright shop displays, uncaring about the puddles.

He pushed a hand through his hair, untying the ponytail it was in and sighing as the blond curls came free.

December 22nd. Courf had already gone home, catching his flight to Belfast that morning. The hangover couldn’t have helped, he’d thought as he and Combeferre waved him off at London City. Bahorel and Feuilly, too, had headed up to Manchester at lunchtime.

‘Ferre was off in a couple of hours, driving back to Wales, while Jehan was getting the Eurostar to Paris to stay with his dotty aunt and be thoroughly bohemian for a few days. Joly and Bossuet , meanwhile, were spending a couple of days with the former’s parents in Newton-le-Willows, and then moving on to Croydon for Boxing Day and a little while after.

Even Marius was leaving, heading off to Berlin with Cosette that evening.

Soon it would be just him and Grantaire, the two most diametrically opposite members of their group of friends, both alone on Christmas.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau, that was depressing.

He felt his phone buzz in his pocket, as if on cue.

_Picturehouse in Shoreditch’s showing Nightmare Before Christmas tonight… Fancy going along?_

Enjolras considered for a minute. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do. And besides, Grantaire was good company.

_Sure. What time?_

The reply came back lightning fast.

_Starts at eight._

Without thinking, Enjolras started tapping out a reply.

_Dinner before?_

Grantaire was a little slower to respond this time, and Enjolras tried not to feel hurt.

_Sounds good. Where were you thinking?_

Enjolras would rather die than admit it, but, plans made, the rest of his afternoon was much more bearable.

Grantaire was waiting for him outside the small restaurant in Shoreditch at six thirty, just as he’d said he would be.

“Evening!” he chirped, smiling widely. Enjolras couldn’t help but smile at the happiness that seemed to radiate off Grantaire at the moment. It was a joy in of itself, but, in comparison to the lows he’d seen his friend at… it was beautiful.

They made their way inside the little bistro and were led to a table by the window (with a candle, how Study in Pink could you get?). The waiter plonked a jug of water and two glasses on the table, then vanished.

“How was your day?” asked Enjolras, settling back in his chair.

“Quite chilled, actually,” the artist replied, hanging his coat off the back of his chair. “I’ve got a commission that’s not due until after Christmas, so I can really take my time with it.”

“What’s the commission?”

“Family portrait. It’s like – what’s the word – one of those eighteenth century things with the family…”

“A conversation piece?”

“That’s the one! Yeah, they’re a pair of historians specialising in that period – apparently they met at a conference on the Enlightenment – and so they’re having this done.”

Enjolras thought. “That’s a little bizarre, but quite an endearing idea, actually.”

Grantaire nodded happily. “Cute family, too. Makes it nicer to work on. How was your day, anyway?”

“Productive, thankfully. You know that piece I’ve been working on for the weekend edition?” Grantaire made a noise of assent. “Finally managed to get through to some of the interviewees. Should have the damn thing done by tomorrow, which is a relief.”

“What’s it on again?”

Out of habit, Enjolras looked over his shoulder. “Gove’s education plans.”

Grantaire stared at him. “Why’d you look around like that? I don’t think the minister for education even knows where Shoreditch is.”

“Habit. Checking that ‘Ferre and Bossuet aren’t in earshot.”

Grantaire laughed loudly. “Oh, god, I’m never making that mistake again. Did it at Courf’s birthday back in August… Christ, the earful I got from those two.”

“Hell hath no fury like a teacher scorned.”

“Especially if it’s a drunk teacher.”

Enjolras gestured with his water glass. “Point.”

Grantaire grinned, then reached for a menu. “You been here before?”

“Yeah, with…” Wait, who had it been with? “Some bloke that Courf set me up with in September.”

“Oh?” Grantaire was doing his best to look disinterested, and failing miserably.

“Well, the dinner was nice.” He sniffed.

Grantaire laughed. “Oooh, cutting words.”

“Says the man whose first criticism of Montparnasse, aside from his lack of moral compass, was that he ‘had a dick more suited in size to a Sylvanian Families rodent’.”

“You _remember_ that? Christ, I’d forgotten I’d said it!” Grantaire looked surprised, and a little touched.

“Of course I do. Quotes like that deserve saving. I’ve got a notebook somewhere with all the nonsense I’ve heard you lot say over the years… That one is a particular favourite, although I think Combeferre just edges you out of pole position.”

Grantaire leaned forward. “Are we talking about-?”

Enjolras nodded grimly. Then, as one, the pair of them exclaimed, “Touch me with that Metro again and I will disprove your existence _until you cry_ , Courfeyrac!”

The rest of the restaurant seemed slightly perturbed by the pair of laughing twenty six year olds in their midst, but no matter.

The waiter returned then. “Are you ready to order, gentlemen?”

“R?”

“Ready if you are.”

“You know, I’d always expected you to be a vegetarian,” said the artist contemplatively, after the waiter had left.

“Of course I’m not a bloody vegetarian,” retorted Enjolras, affronted. Grantaire was giving him that look he did when he was about to shout ‘citation needed’ during one of his speeches, and he deflated. “I tried it once, when I was about fifteen.”

“And?” Grantaire’s eyes glint.

“I can’t fucking stand Quorn.”

For a second, Grantaire looked at him like he was the most fascinating thing on earth. And then he threw his head back, laughing so loudly that other people in the restaurant started looking around for the source of the noise.

“Oh, shut it, you,” Enjolras sighed, but he was smiling too.

“I’ve never actually seen this before,” said Enjolras as they walked up to the cinema. Grantaire stopped dead in his tracks, before spinning around to stare at him, a look of horror upon his face.

“ _What_ did you just say?”

Enjolras shrugged. “Wasn’t ever on my family’s list of festive viewing, I’m afraid.”

“My god,” marvelled Grantaire, as if he were some kind of mythical creature. Then he grabbed Enjolras’ arm, pulling him along. “Well, better late than never.”

It was raining _again_ when they came out of the cinema a couple of hours later. “So, what did you think?” Grantaire demanded as soon as they’d left the screen.

“Bonkers. Absolutely bonkers. I felt like I was tripping for most of it.” He paused, enjoying watching the expectation on the artist’s face. “In a totally brilliant way, of course.”

Grantaire _beamed_ , his entire face lighting up. “Yessssss, I knew it!”

What Enjolras didn’t mention is that he’d enjoyed the other man’s reactions more than the film itself. In the corner of his vision, he’d seen Grantaire mouthing the words, lips tilted up at the side. His laugh had come as loudly as ever, a bright, shining sound that Enjolras had come to like over seven years of knowing the man.

And he’d liked the fizz of happiness that shivered off Grantaire as they sat there in the darkened cinema.

Enjolras stared out at the street through the rain-lashed bus windows. The Christmas lights shone in the puddles, turning the water into streaks of gold and white against the black tarmac, reflections of glowing shop windows glinting in the evening darkness.

Everyone was gone now.

Everyone had gone home to their families.

Everyone except him.

And Grantaire.

He thought back to the night before, to the surprising amount of fun he’d had with the artist. He’d grown steadily closer to the artist over the last few years, even more so since he’d quit drinking a couple of days after his twenty third birthday. He liked Grantaire. He really did.

But now, he found himself growing even fonder of the cynic, to the extent where the text he’d gotten from him earlier (a selfie in front of the most obscene stuffed penguin toy Enjolras had ever seen in his life) had made him smile so much that Hedy Lamarque, his section editor, had hit him over the head with her Filofax to get him to come back to Earth.

He had tried to ignore her comment about how nice it was that he’d finally found someone to smile about.

Enjolras was staring morosely at the empty fireplace when he heard the doorbell go.

“If that’s bloody carol singers,” he muttered to himself as he got up and headed for the door.

Instead of a troupe of teenager in Santa hats, however, he got a twenty-something artist in a bobble hat with reindeer antlers, grinning like it was Chri- wait.

“What are you doing here?” Enjolras asked, without thinking.

Grantaire wasn’t deterred, however, grinning madly. “C’mon – I’ve got something to show you.”

 Normally, Enjolras would have demanded an explanation for what was happening. Today, however, he was prepared to throw caution to the winds.

“Let me just get my coat,” he said, turning towards his bedroom.

“Have you got money on your Oyster card?” Grantaire called after him.

“Of course I have, it’s wired to my debit card, you idiot!” he yelled back, pulling his scarlet coat on and winding a scarf around his neck.

There was a long silence, and he returned to the front door to see Grantaire looking contemplatively at his own Oyster. “You mean I’ve been topping this thing up with loose change every couple of sodding days for the past seven years for no reason whatsoever?”

Enjolras stared at him, then began to laugh. “You’re a prat, you know that?”

Grantaire looked up at him, then grinned. “So you keep telling me. C’mon, let’s go!”

Shaking his head, Enjolras grabbed his keys from the hall table and followed the other man out of the door.

Grantaire had brought them to a German Christmas market on the South Bank. He had to admit, it was gorgeous, all the lights shining against the dark sky, reflecting in the Thames. And, _god_ , it smelled gorgeous, like gingerbread and mulled wine and hot chocolate all rolled into one.

They meandered around the market, sampling delicacies and looking at trinkets. They bought thick, creamy hot chocolate from one stall, which resulted in Grantaire making such an obscene noise that a mother with a pushchair looked around, scandalised.

Enjolras ended up buying a huge bag of Lebkuchen, a fact which amused Grantaire no end.

“Mock me at your own risk, David Hume,” Enjolras threatened as he handed the money over. Grantaire laughed. “I’d forgotten you used to call me that.”

“What else would I call a sceptic who takes pains not to believe in anything?” He bumped Grantaire’s shoulder with his.

“Oh, but I believe in something!”

“Oh yes?”

Grantaire grinned. “I believe in your ability to call me a tosser in fancy words every time I disagree with you.”

Enjolras shoved him, laughing.

There was something about Grantaire’s presence that made him feel lighter, as if he were younger, almost. Except he’d only lightened up with age.

Courf had always said he was a freak…

But besides that, here, among the festive stalls and the tinsel and lights draped in each aisle, with the smell of Lebkuchen and Gluhwein, carols chiming throught the air, he felt happy, happy at Grantaire’s side.

Grantaire slowed their pace as they walked along the Thames, the lights from the South Bank glowing in the black waters. Enjolras fell in step with him easily, despite his longer legs.

The artist was chewing his lip. Again, uncharacteristic behaviour for him; Enjolras was used to Grantaire saying whatever came into his head without thinking.

“Spit it out, R,” he said lightly.

“I was thinking… seeing as the pair of us aren’t going home for Christmas, and it’s bloody miserable cooking for one… do you want to do Christmas dinner together?”

Enjolras looked up at him. The expression on the shorter man’s face was… nervous, almost.

It didn’t take much thinking, to his surprise, to answer that question. Just like how he’d followed Grantaire out without a second thought the last few days, he simply opened his mouth and said “Yes.”

It was only when he was in Tesco’s the next morning that Enjolras realised he had no idea how to cook a Christmas dinner. Of course, this happened when he’d already invited Grantaire over for said dinner.

At least Grantaire was bringing mince pies, he thought dolefully, wandering down the aisles and putting things that he thought might be instrumental to Christmas in his still painfully empty trolley. How the hell did people do this?

Stood in front of about seventeen different brands of stuffing, he warred with his pride for about a minute before pulling his phone out.

“How do you make stuffing?”

“And hello to you too,” laughed Grantaire.

“No, seriously; how the hell do you make it?”

Stifling his laughter, Grantaire replied, “Don’t worry about it, I’ll make the stuffing for the dinner.”

Trying to mask his relief, Enjolras moved away from the menacing stacks of Paxo. “Oh, brilliant. Thanks, R.”

“Are you alright with everything else?”

“Er…”

When Grantaire next spoke, his voice was faintly pitying. “Have you ever done Christmas by yourself before?”

“… No.”

“Have you got a Christmas cake?”

Enjolras added that to his list. “Not yet…”

The next question sounded distinctly like it was being phrased to a small child with learning difficulties. “Do you know how to make roast potatoes?”

Enjolras’ silence spoke volumes.

“Have you got a potato peeler?”

Enjolras frowned. “I… might?” Who on earth peeled their potatoes?

“Right, that’s it.”

“What?” Enjolras was taken aback by the force in Grantaire’s voice.

“I’m coming over. You clearly need to be schooled on how to do Christmas.”

“What?” Enjolras repeated.

“Unless you’d rather come over here? I warn you, though, my flat is a complete tip…”

“Sorry, I lost you at ‘I’m coming over’,” said Enjolras, trying not to smile and not really knowing why he was amused at all.

There was a small pause. “You don’t want me there?”

Enjolras fumbled so quickly to disagree he nearly tripped over his words. “No, no, I – I mean, come over, sure, that’s fine, yes, that’s nice-“

Grantaire laughed, the sound pealing down the phone. “Alright, see you in a bit, Apollo.”

“Don’t call me that-“ Enjolras started, but Grantaire had already hung up. He shrugged, then headed to the checkout.

Half an hour later, he’d just shoved the shopping away when the door bell went.

Grantaire was carrying a large box with the Sharpied legend ‘CHRISTMAS’ on the side. The reindeer bobble hat was back.

“To what pleasure do I owe this?” asked Enjolras, amused.

“You,” puffed Grantaire, dropping the box in the living room, “clearly have no idea how to do Christmas.”

“I do too!” he retorted, painfully aware of how childish he sounded. Grantaire gave him a ‘bitch, please’ sort of look. “Okay, maybe I’m a little out of my depth. But I did buy a Christmas cake!”

“Small mercies, I suppose. Right, onto more pressing matters.” Grantaire bent down and lifted the lid of the box, which turned out to be filled with Christmas decorations. Enjolras raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

“I figured you wouldn’t have decorated your tree yet. Christ, have you even _got_ a tree?”

“Shit, I knew there was something.”

And so it was that Enjolras found himself being pulled down the street at eleven am on Christmas Eve to a greengrocer’s with a dozen Christmas trees outside.

Grantaire came to a stop, then looked expectantly at him. “What?” Enjolras asked, bemused. The shorter man rolled his eyes heavenward. “Pick one, you muppet.”

“I bear no resemblance to a felt puppet with someone’s hand up its arse, thank you very much.”

Grantaire snorted. “God, you’ve a gift with words.”

Enjolras stuck his tongue out, a throwback to primary school when he and Courf would attempt to distract Combeferre from his piano practice when they wanted to play Storming of the Bastille or Sink the Bismarck. “So they tell me.”

“Besides,” Grantaire replied, “when you get pissed off there’s something vaguely reminiscent of Animal… maybe it’s all the hair tossing and incomprehensible growling.”

“Fuck you, R.”

“Don’t suppose you own any fairy lights, do you?” asked Grantaire, contemplatively, as they hauled the tree back to Enjolras’ flat.

Enjolras thought. “No. Nothing stopping us from going to get some, though, if you deem them crucial to the tree.”

Grantaire’s answering smile was so wide that Enjolras felt the piercing urge to keep it on the artist’s face forever.

“Lunch?” Enjolras asked, as they walked down Camden High Street, a bag of fairylights swinging between them.

“Sure.” Grantaire’s reply was easy, the smile that had barely left his face all morning quirking his lips a little more. Enjolras tried to ignore the strange fluttering it set in his stomach, focussing on holding the door to Costa open for the other man.

“You get a table, I’ll order,” he went on. “What d’you want?”

“I can get my own fo-“ Enjolras shot him a quelling look. For once, it worked. Grantaire rolled his eyes, then gave him an order for a panini and some kind of horrendously festive sounding drink.

Five minutes later, with a tray of drinks in hand, he turned to the seating area. Grantaire waved happily from a corner. Smiling slightly, he walked over and plonked the tray down.

“Thank you,” Grantaire said, sincerity clear in his eyes.

“Considering the help you’ve been this morning, it’s only fair that I buy you lunch,” Enjolras replied, picking up his latte. “What even is that, anyway?”

Grantaire looked down at the whipped-cream-chocolate-shavings-and-cherry-sauce-topped monstrosity before him. “It’s heaven. That’s what it is.” He held out the huge glass to Enjolras. “Try it, I know about your sweet tooth.”

“How on earth do you know –“But the brunet was giving him a patented ‘bitch please’ look. I t was kind of worrying how often his friends directed such looks at him. “Apollo. Do you not remember that time I found you in the library at four am with the wrappers of three bars of Tesco Value chocolate and a bottle, of all things, of Yazoo?”

“I thought we agreed never to mention the Yazoo again!”

“Or, in fact, the incident a couple of days later, when you went into a sugar coma because you’d eaten nothing but custard and tinned mandarins for forty eight hours?”

“It was exam week!”

“It was fucking hilarious, that’s what it was. And finally,” and Enjolras knew what was coming, it was always the punchline to these sorts of conversations, “the way you blew a week’s budget on trifle?” Enjolras groaned and let his head drop to the table. “It would have been a little bit more okay if you’d been in first year,” Grantaire went on, and he could bloody _hear_ the grin in his voice, “but you were in second year and really should have known better.”

“I hate you,” Enjolras mumbled from the table.

“I know,” replied Grantaire sweetly.

Fed and totally sugared up, the pair made their way back to Enjolras’ flat to decorate his tree. Grantaire despatched him to go fetch his own paltry store of Christmas decorations, standing back to survey the tree.

“There,” the taller man said, depositing his box on the floor. A few chipped baubles, an angel, and a host of decorations that could only have been handmade.

“Hey, what are these?” Grantaire asked, pulling out a wonky clay Christmas tree.

Enjolras felt his ears going red. “They’re – they’re decorations that Courf, ‘Ferre and I made. One year, we put a Christmas tree up in Combeferre’s tree house, but we didn’t have any decorations for it. So we had to make our own.” He nodded down at the one in Grantaire’s hand. “’Ferre made that one.”

Grantaire had an expression on his face that most people reserved for small children and kittens. “How old were you?”

Enjolras had to think for a minute. “It was the year that Courf’s mum dropped the flaming Christmas pudding on their cat, so… nine? Maybe ten?”

Grantaire smiled down at the ornament in his hand. “The triumvirate, aged ten.” He looked up. “Please tell me at least one of you had braces and knock knees.”

“’Ferre had the braces. I had the knees. And Courf was perpetually covered in dirt. His father used to say that he was subconsciously digging for peat.”

“That… that is adorable.” He looked up. “I’ve images of you with a gap between your front teeth, yelling at the others to decorate the tree properly.”

“Not so far off, to be honest,” Enjolras admitted. He moved over to one of the many bookshelves, picking up a photo frame and handing it to Grantaire.

It was a photo of the three of them from some time in year four or five. Arms around each other, they stood in Combeferre’s back garden, each boy grinning wide enough to show a fine set of gaps (Courf) or a mouthful of blue and white braces (Ferre). Enjolras, meanwhile, had the coveted gap between his front teeth, beaming up at the camera in a way the adult would rarely do. Each boy was covered in mud and grass, jumpers askew and hair going everywhere.

“God, you were a set of cute kids, weren’t you?” He looked down at the photograph once more time, before handing it back. Enjolras replaced it on the shelf, then turned expectantly to the other man, whose expression had set into Artist Mode. Look on his works, ye mighty, and despair.

Enjolras soon found himself holding a bundle of Christmas lights while Grantaire wove them artistically around the tree. A similar thing happened when he attempted to drape tinsel, only to have the artist grab it from his hands and start rearranging it into gently undulating loops instead of… well, wonky lines would have been kind.

If anyone else had bossed him around like that, he might have gotten a bit irritated. (Read: would have been infuriated. Unless it was Combeferre.) But he found himself going along with Grantaire’s commands, admitting that the tree was going to look far better with his help than anything he could have come up with.

It was a little overwhelming, actually.

Grantaire had put his phone on the mantelpiece, where it was blaring out a vast selection of Christmas music, and he was singing along as he put baubles on the tree. Now allowed to help with more autonomy, Enjolras added his voice, reaching up to the tallest branches.

 _Oh I say it’s tough_  
I have had enough  
Won’t you stop the cavalry

“Oh, you _would_ like this one, wouldn’t you?” asked Grantaire, but his voice was more fond than exasperated. Enjolras gave him a friendly two fingers, before diving back into the boxes of baubles.

Enjolras reached up, an hour later, to place the Courf-fashioned angel on the tree, then stood back to admire their creation.

“I couldn’t have done this on my own.”

“Course you couldn’t. You’ve not an artistic bone in your body.”

Enjolras shoved him, but he was laughing.

“I should probably head off,” said Grantaire, stretching. “Don’t want to impose any more than I already have.”

For some reason, this idea struck Enjolras as a terrible one. “No, you don’t need to do that – I mean, after all, you’re coming back tomorrow, what’s the point?” The surprised look on the artist’s face had him scrambling for words, _again_. “It’s fucking horrible outside!”

Faintly amused, Grantaire leant forward. “Is this you asking me to stay for a sleepover, Enj?”

Enjolras blushed. He was a fool. It was only three o’clock, for god’s sake.

“Seeing as we’re doing all this… we might as well do it properly. A proper Christmas. So…” Enjolras fumbled for the right phrasing. “So why don’t you stay here for a couple of days - at least until the others get back. It’d be like a… like a family Christmas, or whatever…”

Grantaire didn’t say anything. He just looked at Enjolras with the strangest expression on his face.

“I mean, I’ve got a spare room… unless you’ve got plans…” Enjolras trailed off.

A small smile quirked the side of Grantaire’s mouth. “You know I don’t have any plans, Apollo.”

“So… what do you think? I know it’s last minute and all that, but… it could be nice.”

The smile on Grantaire’s face widened slightly. “It would be my pleasure, my dear Enjolras, to spend Christmas with you.”

The bright, genuine smile that spread across Enjolras’ face caught him unawares.

Grantaire dismissed himself to go get his things, and Enjolras set to cleaning up the guest room. It was barely used.

About two hours later, he heard the doorbell go. That had taken rather longer than he’d expected; Shoreditch wasn’t so far from Bloomsbury.

When he swung the door open, he was not expecting the sight he was greeted with. Grantaire, this time wearing an actual set of felt reindeer antlers, had his arms laden with several bags and what appeared to be half a Christmas tree’s worth of tinsel.

“Christ, did you rob John Lewis or something?” he demanded, stepping back to let the shorter man into his flat.

“Close enough,” panted Grantaire, staggering into the kitchen and dropping his bags. Enjolras watched him, faintly amused. “I figured if we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly.”

“What’s all this?” he asked, walking over to peer inside one of the bags.

“Christmas. This is Christmas.”

“A family pack of Quality Street, a kilo of satsumas –“

“Clementines,” corrected Grantaire, wrestling with his tinsel.

“And an ungodly quantity of puff pastry. Christ, how are you so skinny if you eat all this crap?”

Grantaire grinned. “Doesn’t count. It’s Christmas. Now shut up and help me unpack all this – I know you won’t have done a decent shop, I just know it.”

Enjolras pouted. “You know I went shopping earlier!”

Grantaire walked over to the fridge and opened the door. “A bag of mixed veg, a ton of your posh cheese, some potatoes, a decidedly mangy looking turkey crown and… five pomegranates, a massive pack of Philadelphia and four packets of smoked salmon? Oh, and a weird quantity of brandy butter for someone supposedly spending Christmas alone.” He opened the freezer. “My god, how many fucking prawns can one man eat? And is that _asparagus_?”

Enjolras crossed his arms defensively. “Christmas means prawns.”

Grantaire eyed him. “God, you’re a weirdo.”

“Fuck off, R,” Enjolras replied, but there was no rancour in his voice. “Besides, seems like you’ve got quite enough food for the both of us.” He bent down to start unpacking one of the bags. “The fuck is this?”

“Proper bacon. Got it from Borough Market.” The dark haired man disappeared into the living room.

“Fair enough.” He put it away. “What’s with the ungodly quantity of tinsel, anyway?”

Grantaire poked his head around the door frame. “No offence, or anything, but your flat is still depressing as fuck.” Enjolras threw a clementine at his head.

Grinning, the dark-haired man ducked. “Your aim is improving. You’ll be able to throw Molotov cocktails at the tanks when the revolution comes.”

The blond stared at the madman in his flat for a second, before shaking his head, laughing. “You’re insane, you are.”

“You wouldn’t have me any other way,” replied Grantaire. And Enjolras found himself agreeing, privately, a faint blush heating the skin over his cheekbones as he turned back to the shopping bags on the floor.

The pair of them continued in their tasks in contented silence, Grantaire continuing draping tinsel all over the flat, while Enjolras unpacked the most bizarre mishmash of foodstuffs he’d ever seen. None of which he was willing to admit he’d forgotten. None. None at all. Not even the mince pies.

“What in the everloving fuck are Cheese Footballs?”

“Oh my god, you are not telling me you’ve never sampled the delight that is a Cheese Football,” said Grantaire, coming back into the kitchen, his face horrorstricken.

“Can’t say they were ever on my family’s menu.”

“That is changing, right now. Open them up.” Faintly perplexed, Enjolras pulled the lid off the tub and started wrestling with the foil underneath. “Never had a Cheese Football… you poor, deprived child. Lord, if ‘Ponine were here…”

“Where is Eponine, anyway?”

“She’s taken Gavroche to Prague for the week. She got a bonus from her boss, wanted to give him a really good Christmas this year…” He trailed off.

Enjolras nodded. The eldest Thenardier siblings had had a rum deal of it in recent years; he was glad that Eponine had found her feet at last.

Grantaire surveyed the blond, who was still struggling with the tub of savoury snacks. “Oh, give it here.”

Sheepishly, Enjolras handed it over. With practiced ease, the artist ripped the foil off and immediately shoved the tub at the taller man. “Go. See what you’ve been missing all these years.”

Tentatively, Enjolras picked one of the small spheres out. He rolled it between thumb and finger, eyeing it.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Don’t inspect it like it’s radioactive waste, just eat the damn thing.”

Obligingly – not a word often applied to Enjolras, journalistic scourge of politicians everywhere – he popped it in his mouth.

“That’s one of the weirdest things I’ve ever eaten.” A short pause, and then he stuck his hand back in the tub. Grantaire cackled with victory.

With all the food shoved into fridge, cupboard and freezer, Enjolras began to help Grantaire with his decorating. The man clearly had a vision for the flat.

“How come you don’t live with Combeferre these days?” asked Grantaire, stringing fairy lights from the ceiling.

Enjolras shrugged, passing the shorter man the sellotape. “We realised a couple of years back that we were becoming dangerously codependent. We each needed our own space as adults, so we got our own places.”

“Fair enough. S’pose we’re all growing up now, aren’t we?” He bit off a strip of sellotape.

The blond leant against the wall. “I think we have been for a while. God knows, it was a terrifying day when Courfeyrac came home with a job that required him to be a sane human being.”

Grantaire laughed. “Christ, it was. Oh, and Bossuet managing to get a job involving small children, that was a worrying one…”

“The risk assessments at that school must be very difficult, that’s all I’m saying.”

A few hours later, the flat was a beacon of festivity. The pair of them slumped on the sofa, flicking on the television.

“What do you normally do for Christmas Eve?” asked Enjolras.

“Eh, normally Ponine and I bake a ham and watch Blackadder with Gav sitting at our feet munching his way through a box of chocolates he shouldn’t already have gotten his hands on. Oh, and we make sausage rolls and mince pies and attempt to mull apple juice.”

Enjolras smiled at the thought. “That sounds fun, actually.”

“Mmm, it is. They’re probably in some cutesy little Czech restaurant right now, bless ‘em.” He stretched. “What does one do in the Lefontaine household?”

“My grandmother cooks.” Enjolras paused for a second. “She makes salmon, normally. And Parmentier potatoes. And mince pies. Takes her ages to prepare, but she always says it’s worth it. The house fills up with the smell of pastry and garlic and herbs and my mother always complains but it’s lovely. She – my grandmother – usually sets me to chopping up the vegetables and rolling out the pastry. Has done since I could hold a knife without chopping my fingers off. And then after dinner my grandfather, grandmother and I sit and play cards in the library and he tries to teach me to appreciate whiskey while my grandmother practically forcefeeds me mince pies.”

There was a short pause. “You miss them, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question. Enjolras nodded. “I’ve never heard you talk about anyone in your family like that before.”

“That’s because they’re not like the rest of my family.”

There was another silence. “Can I ask, why is it you’re not going home?” Grantaire’s voice was soft, and for some reason Enjolras found himself willing to open up about something he could barely articulate to Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

“My parents have… cut me off, I suppose, although not in a financial sense.” He sighed. “Do you remember that protest last month? The LGBTQ one?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I can hardly forget the sight of Bahorel in a rainbow morphsuit.”

Despite himself, Enjolras laughed. “Well, the news covered it in quite a lot of detail. Turns out that my parents were watching ITN just as they caught me on camera.”

“Your parents aren’t particularly pro you being gay, are they?”

“I’m told my mother fainted at the sight of me brandishing a rainbow flag. So, no. My father rang me and told me I wasn’t welcome at home any longer.” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t care if it weren’t for my grandparents, and Yvonne, our housekeeper. It’s not like that place is really a home. I spent most of my time at Combeferre’s or Courf’s when we were growing up.”

Grantaire frowned. “That… that’s horrible, quite frankly. Your parents sound like bastards.”

Enjolras let out a laugh, and was ashamed to hear the faint sob in the sound. “They vote Tory.”

“Even worse!” Grantaire roared, then stood up, holding out a hand to him. Enjolras let him pull him up onto his feet, comforted more than he could really express by the contact.

“C’mon, I’m teaching you to make sausage rolls.”

Enjolras thought, as he started rolling out pastry, that he’d really made the right decision in having Grantaire over for Christmas. As the artist started dancing around the kitchen to the Christmas songs he’d pulled up on his phone, mixing a bowl of sausagemeat with onions and herbs, he felt his face relax into a smile of pure contentment, before joining in on the chorus of 2000 Miles by the Pretenders.

With no ham to bake, they found themselves having the sausage rolls for dinner, along with a prawn cocktail that Enjolras whipped up from scratch.

“Let me get this straight,” Grantaire said, leaning against the counter, “you don’t know how to make stuffing _from a packet_ but you can make prawn cocktail from scratch?”

“Weird upbringing. Parents sent me on a cordon bleu cookery course when I was fourteen. I can make vol-au-vents, duck confit and a short list of other suitably fancy dishes, but I burn toast.” He gave the sauce a vigorous stir. “Also, it impresses people when you make them dinner.”

“You make people dinner?” asked the artist with incredulity.

Enjolras turned away from his Marie Rose sauce to glower at him. “It has been known to happen.”

Grantaire hooted. “The wooing of a man, by Enjolras Lafontaine. Where do I get my copy?” Enjolras threw a tea towel at him, but he wasn’t done. “What happens when you run out of things to make them?”

“The relationship, founded on lies from the start, falls to pieces like my pastry.” Grantaire stared at him a second, then burst out laughing.

They did, in the end, wind up watching Blackadder. Enjolras enjoyed listening to Grantaire laugh almost as much as he enjoyed the programme himself. It was starting to become a Thing, he realised.

Christmas Day began in a way that Enjolras imagined many parents of young children would be familiar with. Grantaire leapt on his bed, shrieking “It’s CHRISTMAS!”

“Oh my god, get off me, you hooligan! How can you already be this hyper?” he groaned, throwing his arm over his eyes.

“Didn’t you hear me? It’s _Christmas_!” And the happiness in Grantaire’s eyes was beautiful, so beautiful that he let himself be dragged up out of bed.

The Christmas tree glowed in the corner, and the pair of them dropped down beside it in their pyjamas, like children. Grantaire had brought a couple of presents of his own, to add to the two packages that Enjolras’ grandparents had sent.

There were also two, new presents.

Grantaire looked at Enjolras, who laughed. “Both had the same idea, didn’t we?”

“Wouldn’t do to have a Christmas without this,” replied Grantaire, grinning.

They each passed the other their present. They’d each given the other their present at the party on the 21st – a gorgeous new sketchbook and oil pastels for Grantaire, and a year’s subscription to the Economist for Enjolras – so these were a little more… lighthearted.

Grantaire laughed aloud when he opened his. It was a knitted hat that said ‘IT’S TOO FUCKING COLD’ in large red letters.

“Saw it and thought of you,” smiled Enjolras.

“It’s perfect, thank you!” He immediately rammed it on his head.

Enjolras carefully unwrapped his own gift, and then burst out laughing. “I AM MILDLY DISCONTENTED ABOUT THE STATE OF THINGS?” he read off the tee shirt.  “Thanks, R, that’s brilliant.”

They took a lazy breakfast, watching carols on the television and simply basking in the glow from the tree, wearing their Christmas presents. Grantaire took to reading the book Combeferre had given him, while Enjolras started downloading the Arcade Fire album Cosette had gifted to him.

A little icon dinged on his laptop. “Oh, my grandparents are skyping me. You don’t mind, do you?”

Grantaire shook his head, still reading happily. “Course not.”

Nodding, Enjolras hit ‘accept call’ and immediately felt his heart swell as he saw his grandparents’ faces fill the screen. “Merry Christmas!” they cried in unison, and he almost burst into tears right then and there.

“Hello, Granny and Grandpa,” he replied, smiling through the lump in his throat. “How are things in Mordor?”

“Horrendous as ever,” replied his grandfather. “We’ve decamped to the library to avoid Sauron and his all seeing eye.”

Beside him, Grantaire choked as he tried to stifle laughter.

“Do pass on my best regards,” Enjolras said, caustically.

“Don’t worry, I’ve the arsenic if all else fails.” His sweet, kind grandmother grinned. “But how are you, sweetie?”

“I’m fine, having a rather more peaceful Christmas than usual. Maybe you should come here next year.”

“Not a bad idea if you ask me,” chuckled his grandfather. “I’d much rather spend the holidays with you than with your awful shit bast- “

“Harold!”

“It’s nothing he’s not heard before, Marie.”

Enjolras tried to hold back laughter. His grandparents were the single most wonderful people on the planet, in his opinion.

“Anyway, did you get your presents? I wasn’t sure of the post, so I sent them nice and early,” his grandmother said, eagerly.

He nodded. “I did, thank you. They’re fantastic; I’ve wanted that book for ages and the jumper is really warm.” He angled the laptop camera so they could see he was wearing it, and his grandmother clucked approvingly. “Such a handsome boy.”

“You did get your presents, right?”

“That we did,” his grandfather said. “Much appreciated, Enj my boy; I’ll be putting that disc shooter to good use in the next few days, I shouldn’t wonder. And the whiskey, well –“ He held up a glass. “I’ve taught you well. As for your grandmother, the noise she let out when she unwrapped that box set of Downtown Abbey –“

“You know very well it’s Downton, Harold. It’s lovely, dear, as are the flowers.”

Enjolras smiled, glad he’d hit the mark. “Excellent.” He looked down at his watch. “Hang on, shouldn’t you be at high table right now?”

His grandparents exchanged looks. “We fear that assignation is coming, yes. Your father’s on _fine_ form today, I must say. Growling about fair trade coffee and pinko liberals.”

“Maybe you should have turned up anyway,” his grandfather said. “Given the bugger the apoplexy he deserves.”

Grantaire, by this point, had shoved his fist in his mouth to prevent himself from laughing.

Enjolras smiled. “Wouldn’t do to ruin your Christmases with an inquest.”

“Ruin?” demanded his grandfather. “That would make Christmas!”

Grantaire was swiftly going scarlet in the face in the attempt to not laugh.

“Honestly, dear,” his grandmother said, leaning into the camera, “it’s disgusting how your parents are behaving. I’m ashamed of your mother, quite frankly. We certainly didn’t raise her to be like this. To us, darling, it doesn’t matter how many protests you get caught at; we’re proud of you for making a stand. And it certainly doesn’t matter if you like boys instead of girls.”

“Ridiculous criticism of your father’s, really, considering how deeply he’s got a stick inserted up his arse…”

That was apparently the last straw for Grantaire, who burst out laughing.

“Enjolras? Have you got someone there?” His grandmother looked delighted. Enjolras looked to his side, asking silently. Grantaire nodded, shifting along the sofa until he was in the frame.

“This is my friend Grantaire. The artist. I’m sure I’ve mentioned him before.”

“You’re the one who painted him for his birthday, yes?”

Grantaire shot a look at Enjolras, as if surprised he’d mentioned it. “Yes ma’am, that’s me.”

“Grantaire’s staying with me for Christmas; we’re both a little adrift this year.”

His grandmother nodded. “How lovely.” Then her face paled. “He’s not cooking for you, is he, Grantaire dear?”

Grantaire roared with laughter. Enjolras glared at him, but there was no heat in the gaze.

“I think that’s answer enough. Tell me, Grantaire,” said his grandfather, and oh god, Enjolras knew that tone of voice. “Are you gay too?”

Enjolras buried his head in his hands. “I’m bi, actually, but thanks for asking.”

“I said ‘friend’, Grandpa,” Enjolras wailed, “FRIEND. Are you done embarrassing us, or did you want to get out my baby pictures while you were at it?”

“No, I think we’ve made our mark.”

Farewells were said, then Enjolras shut the lid of the laptop and slid it onto the coffee table. Slowly, he turned to face Grantaire. He wasn’t expecting to see him grinning.

“Your grandparents are right characters, aren’t they?”

Relieved, Enjolras laughed. “You bet.”

“Good luck to your parents with them at their stuffy lunch, Christ…”

Their lunch, on the other hand, was a joy. Grantaire, true to form, cooked the most amazing roast turkey Enjolras had ever had. He, on sous chef detail, enjoyed chopping up carrots and potatoes (peeling them too, fancy that!) with Grantaire at his side, the pair of them singing along to the Christmas music that had become everpresent in the flat.

They pulled crackers (a slight extravagance, considering there were only two of them) and wore multiple coloured paper hats each, telling the terrible jokes and laughing unashamedly at them. After, Enjolras produced the Christmas pudding, setting fire to a candle above it in lieu of drenching it in alcohol. Grantaire laughed for about ten minutes straight at the sight.

After, they lounged on the sofa, munching on chocolates that they really didn’t have room for at this stage, half watching the Vicar of Dibley. Enjolras found himself at peace in a way he wasn’t used to feeling at Christmas.

They were in the kitchen making tea when Grantaire nudged him.

“It’s seven twenty five. You know what that means?” Enjolras’ eyes flicked to the living room, then, as one, as if they were six, not twenty six, the pair of them barrelled into the room, diving onto the sofa.

Predictably, Enjolras found himself crying at the departure of the Eleventh Doctor. What he wasn’t expecting, however, was to hear loud sniffs at his side. He looked over during the credits.

“Hey, I loved Matt Smith,” snapped Grantaire, but there was no force in the retort. And then: “Do you want to watch Downton Abbey?”

Enjolras had it on ITV before you could say ‘Mary Crawley’.

“You _would_ like Branson,” Grantaire crowed, as they stood in the kitchen, foraging for food. “He’s exactly your type.”

“Not exactly,” Enjolras replied through a mouthful of cracker, then swallowed, inelegantly. “He reminds me a little too much of Courf for me to ever fancy him properly.” Grantaire laughed, spreading butter on some of Enjolras’ posh rye bread. “I quite like Alfred, myself. Nice northern lad.”

“I must warn Bahorel and Feuilly of your imminent advances,” Enjolras said, drily, and got a tomato to the head for his trouble.

At ten o’clock, Grantaire suddenly yelled. “LOVE ACTUALLY!”

“Now this we can agree on. Christmas is not Christmas without Love Actually.”

After Love Actually was done, the pair of them, not ready to sleep, put on a Muppet Christmas Carol.

“This is my childhood, man,” sighed Grantaire.

“You always were a muppet.”

“Fuck off, Apollo.”

Eventually, at about two am, Grantaire yawned. “Okay, I’m beat.”

Enjolras nodded. Bed time.

They walked to the hall, then stopped outside their respective doors. “Night, Enjolras,” smiled Grantaire.

“Night, R.”

Enjolras fell asleep with a broad smile on his face.

Boxing Day dawned colder than ever, the windowpanes icing over. Padding over to the bathroom, Enjolras snuck a look into the guest bedroom, whose door lay slightly ajar.

Grantaire was sprawled out against the sheets, fast asleep. Enjolras stared for a second at the movement of his tee shirt over his back as he breathed, before realising he was being a Pontmercy and decided to go have his shower.

It was only once he got out of the shower that he realised how cold it was in the flat. The tiles were freezing cold, and when he returned to his bedroom, his breath had started to make clouds in the air when he walked too close to the window as he got dressed.

A little worried, he put his hand on the radiator. The radiator he’d switched on the night before. The radiator that was now cold as fucking ice.

He put on another jumper.

“Grantaire?” he called, slightly nervously.

A muffled “What?” sounded from the guest room.

“I think the heating’s broken.”

There was a pause, then he heard Grantaire exhale. “Shit.”

Ten minutes later, the pair of them were stood in the hall, eyeing the boiler. “Yep, I think it’s fair to say your heating’s fucked.”

“Wonderful. Well, at least we’ve still got hot water – I never knew how glad one could be for an immersion heater…”

“Small mercies,” said Grantaire cheerfully. “I’d suggest we decamp to mine, but…” Simultaneously, the pair of them looked out at the snow in the street below. As if on cue, a man tentatively returning from the newsagent with a paper fell flat on his arse. Both men winced.

“I doubt we’d make it there in one piece.”

“Much as it hurts me to, I’d have to agree with you on that one, Apollo.” Enjolras stuck his tongue out at the dark-haired man. “Have you phoned the heating company?”

Enjolras nodded. “Can’t make it here until the 29th at the earliest.”

“Well, could be worse. In the meantime, time to make this place into a snow-proof fortress.”

“Only you could say that with a straight face.”

A couple of minutes later, the pair of them were hefting blankets out of the airing cupboard. “Christ, Apollo, how many blankets can one man own?” demanded Grantaire, struggling with about three throws.

“I get cold sometimes,” said Enjolras defensively, pulling a quilt out. Grantaire stopped, dropping his load. “What?” the taller man asked in consternation.

Grantaire shushed him. “Shut up. I’m trying to preserve the mental image of you burritoing yourself in blankets because _you get cold sometimes_.”

Enjolras glared at him.

“God, you’re adorable, Apollo.”

“I am twenty-six years old. I am not adorable.”

“Oh, but you are.”

“Fuck off.”

As the pair of them tossed blankets and quilts into the living room, Grantaire let out a cry of jubilation. “You have a fireplace!”

“Oh yeah. I barely use it.” Despite living in a late Edwardian flat, Enjolras had precious little appreciation for its period features.

“Barely uses it, he says,” mumbled Grantaire. “I don’t suppose you have any firewood, then?”

Enjolras thought for a moment, then remembered one of his stranger interactions with Marius. He dashed off to the hall cupboard, before returning, arms filled with logs.

The look of surprise upon Grantaire’s face was truly beautiful.

“Where the fuck did you produce that lot from?”

Enjolras moved over to the fireplace, tossing logs in. “Marius went on a bit of a DIY spree over the summer, which included him chopping down a load of trees in his and Cosette’s new back garden because they were ‘obstructing the light’ into the nursery. Despite the fact that they don’t have kids.”

“Oh, but they will. They will very soon. Marius is desperate to be Papa Pontmercy.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I think Cosette may have something to say about that. Anyway, Marius turned up at my door one day in August and handed me a sack of firewood, mumbling something about how I was the only one with a fireplace and thus could put it to good use.” He frowned. “Couldn’t really bear to say no to him, so I just shoved it all in the cupboard.”

“Well, we should certainly be thankful to the Amazing Pontmercy.” Grantaire knelt in front of the grate, pulling his lighter out of his jeans pocket. “Chuck me a bit of newspaper, eh?”

Obligingly, Enjolras held out the sports section of the most recent Guardian. Grantaire looked down, and smiled a smile very different to his usual amused smirk or wide grin. It was almost… fond.

“You never change,” he said quietly, lips still turned up. His voice, however, was tinged with… sadness?

“I do in some ways,” the blond replied, somehow knowing they weren’t talking about his hatred of sports any more.

Grantaire opened his mouth as if to speak, and then shut it, chewing his lower lip. He turned his attention to the newspaper in his hands, ripping sheets off and scrunching them into sausages, which he lit and placed among the logs. Within a couple of minutes, he had a fire burning, streaks of red light dancing around the room and giving off a glorious amount of heat.

“I’m nothing if not practical,” he said, noticing Enjolras’ approving look.

“One thing I have never been able to lay claim to being,” replied the blond, holding a hand out to help Grantaire to his feet. The artist’s hand was warm in his, and lightly callused.

“Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me. Who was it who set fire to the kitchen with _a pack of butter_?”

“Am I ever going to live that down?”

“Nope,” Grantaire said in a satisfied manner. “C’mon, blanket fort time.”

“Now, this I _can_ do.” Dodging over to the stack of blankets, he pulled out a large quilt, bundling it up in his arms. “Out the way.” Grantaire, amused, moved, allowing Enjolras to throw the quilt out across the floor directly in front of the sofa. He then darted back to pull out a couple of throws, draping them across each arm of the sofa.

“Chuck me a couple of pillows, will you?”

Grantaire, smiling silently, passed them over and watched as Enjolras built them an honest to god _castle_ out of blankets, duvets and pillows. “You know, Apollo, I’ve never been more glad that you are a soft furnishings freak.”

Enjolras threw a pillow at his head.

They spent the afternoon contentedly watching reruns of Christmas murder mysteries, decimating one of the many boxes of chocolates that the pair of them had amassed between them over the holiday period. It was definitely an ‘employee gift’.

At about half four, Grantaire let out a shriek. Startled, Enjolras dropped his cup of tea. “What the hell?” he demanded, trying to mop up the spillage on his jeans.

The voice that came out of the artist’s mouth was not one he ever would have associated with the paintsplattered ex-alcoholic cynic. “It’s _snowing_ ,” he breathed in rapture, eyes fixed on the window. Enjolras turned around, and, sure enough, he was right.

Proper snow, too. Thick, fluffy flakes were pouring down from the heavens at a rate of knots.

“Well, you got your white Christmas,” he said. Grantaire beamed.

Later on, after a dinner of leftovers (Enjolras jokingly threatened turkey curry, not expecting the colour to rush out of Grantaire’s face before he started shovelling meat onto his plate) Enjolras demanded they watch the Snowman. And the Snowman and the Snowdog.

Grantaire tactfully pretended not to notice how wet Enjolras’ eyes got, handing him the box of tissues from the coffee table.

They lay on the blankets for a while after, staring up at the ceiling.

“You know, I think this is the best Christmas I’ve ever had,” said Enjolras softly.

“I’m glad.”

The pair of them fell asleep in the blanket fort that evening, the Snowman and Snowdog’s title screen still shining onto the otherwise dark room.

The next morning, Enjolras woke in the dim light of a room illuminated only by the grey morning and the low burning fire. However, the temperature drop hadn’t really affected him – no, he was perfectly warm where he was… _snuggled up to Grantaire_.

Er.

How on earth had this happened? Had his damned subconscious decided to act for him, and latch onto the other man?

Well, Grantaire’s subconscious didn’t seem to be complaining, what with the way his arms were wound around Enjolras, his face pressed into his collarbone.

And to be honest, aside from the inevitable awkwardness when Grantaire woke up, Enjolras wasn’t complaining either. It was… lovely, actually. He’d forgotten what it was like to hold and be held, to wake up warm in someone else’s arms.

For a minute he considered going back to sleep. It was so warm and comforting, here in the circle of Grantaire’s arms.

But then the other man began to stir, rubbing his cheek faintly against Enjolras’ clothed collarbone. “Mmm,” he sighed, stretching slightly. And then he froze.

“Mor-ning,” Grantaire said, slowly, opening his eyes.

“Morning,” replied Enjolras, feeling his cheeks heating.

The pair of them held their position for slightly longer than could be considered accidental, before they pulled apart, extricating themselves with a little difficulty. Blushing, Enjolras headed for the bathroom, while Grantaire started making breakfast.

His embarrassment, however, got cut off by his phone as he was getting dressed.

“I just got a call from Courf,” said Enjolras, running a hand through his hair as he came into the kitchen. “His flight’s been cancelled – snow in Belfast.”

“Shit,” replied Grantaire. “Jehan’s stuck out in Paris, too, and the Pontmercys in Berlin.”

As they were eating breakfast, Enjolras’ phone buzzed. “Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me.”

“Mmf?” asked Grantaire through a mouthful of toast.

“’Ferre’s stuck in Wales. Snow everywhere.”

The darker haired man swallowed. “Wales isn’t that far from Manchester…”

Sure enough, come lunchtime, Feuilly and Bahorel had texted Enjolras and Grantaire respectively to inform the pair of their stranding in their home town.

“So now it’s just Joly and Bossuet we have to worry about,” said Grantaire as the pair of them watched a repeat of an old Doctor Who Christmas special, a large tin of Quality Street between them on the sofa.

“Either they’ll be stuck somewhere, or Bossuet will have broken something.”

Grantaire’s ice-blue eyes gleamed. “Ten quid it’s a major limb.”

“You’re on.”

The text that came as the Sycorax fled the Earth’s skies prompted a howl from Grantaire. “I take it that means you owe me a tenner,” said Enjolras, eyes not leaving the screen as he plucked another chocolate from the tin.

“They’ve closed all the roads around Newton-le-Willows.” The artist scowled. “They’re stuck there, in deepest darkest Merseyside.”

“Christ, I think that’s actually worse than breaking a limb.”

The leftover turkey ran out that evening at dinner. “No turkey curry, after all,” Enjolras said, mock sadly, and Grantaire pretended to retch. “I’ll make salmon linguine tomorrow night.”

“Another one of your list of specialities?” Enjolras bit back a smile. “My, you’re wooing me. I might faint.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, throwing a chocolate at him.

They were watching, of all things, Call the Midwife when Enjolras’ phone buzzed.

_So a little bird tells me you’re spending Christmas with R. xxx_

**_Yes, Courf. What of it?_ **

_Is love blossoming in WC1? Is your cold heart growing warm with festive cheer and… luuurve? xxx_

**_You haven’t matured since before university, have you?_ **

_Of course not. That would be boring. LIKE YOU. Xxx_

**_I love you too._ **

_Tell R that. Xxx_

The next text zoomed in straight after the next.

_And remember to use protection! Xxx_

Well, he wasn’t dignifying that with an answer.

“Courf, being infuriating as ever,” he explained when Grantaire looked over curiously.

“The man never disappoints.”

By some unspoken consensus, the pair of them fell asleep together in the living room again, heads resting on each other as they drifted off during yet another Christmas murder mystery. When they woke up, at four am, with cricked necks, there was a short beat in the darkness, before they each headed off to their separate bedrooms.

They woke late on the 28th,  breakfast basically turning into lunch. “You know what we should do?”

“What?” asked Enjolras through a mouthful of smoked salmon.

“We should have a snowball fight. It’s barely stopped snowing since Boxing Day, there’s maaaaaad powder out there.”

Enjolras chose to ignore this last. “A snowball fight? When we haven’t got any central heating?” Grantaire grinned even wider. And, possessed by that strange rush of exhilaration he’d come to associate with the artist, Enjolras found himself matching the smile. “Fuck it, let’s go.”

Limbs light, Enjolras rushed into his room to grab coat and knitwear. He was still shoving his hands into his gloves as he came into the hall, nearly crashing into Grantaire, who really had no right to look as good as he did in a bobble hat _with sodding reindeer antlers_.

“Oops, sorry,” he mumbled, feeling colour rise inexplicably to his cheeks.

“Doesn’t matter. C’mon, Apollo, let’s _go_!” grinned the artist, grabbing his hand and pulling him out the door.

They tore down the stairs to the entrance hall, before bursting out into the snow-filled street. Grantaire let go of his hand, sprinting away. Enjolras clocked his aim, immediately bending down to scoop up a handful of snow, but the artist was quicker, a snowball flying past his ear.

“Oh no you don’t,” Enjolras mumbled, before straightening up and throwing his snowball at Grantaire. By some miracle, it hit him right in the small of his back.

The look of consternation on Grantaire’s face as he turned around was absolutely glorious. And then all hell broke loose, the pair of them dashing across to parked cars and hedges to seize more snow and pelt it at the other. It was exhilarating, the rush of childish sport and the cold and _Grantaire._

In a mad dog attack, he sprinted towards Grantaire, whooping ‘vive la revolution!’ and dumping a load of snow down his neck. The artist howled, and whipped around, but Enjolras had already made a run for it, pounding back down the street. He needed more snow, _stat._

Grantaire was gaining on him, a huge snowball in each hand. He looked around frantically for a source of more snow. (There was no way he was throwing dirty snow from the road at poor Grantaire.)

And then he saw his saviour. A middle aged woman, just crossing the road by a low wall which was covered in about half a foot of snow.

He ran towards her, then slowed to a walking pace.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, knowing that the only reason he would ever do something this daft would be Grantaire, “would you mind if I briefly hid behind you for a moment?”

“Excuse me?”

“You see, my friend is over there, with two rather large snowballs, and I find myself unarmed. However, there is a large reserve of snow right there, and if I am behind your good self, he won’t throw his ammunition until I am well clear of you.”

The woman smiled. “Go on then, young man.”

“Madam, I am indebted to you.” He ducked behind her, raking snow into his gloved palms. He heard Grantaire’s cry of frustration.

“Just how old are you?” asked the woman, shaking her head in amusement.

“Twenty six, ma’am, and I work for a national newspaper” replied Enjolras, shooting out from behind her and jumping in the air, using the leverage to throw his Super Snowball at Grantaire. It hit him square in the chest, exploding in a mass of white chunks. The artist looked down at the mess on his coat, then looked up, a grin spreading over his face.

“Oh, you are going to _pay_ for that, Apollo,” he said, smile quickly turning evil. Enjolras judged the distance to the next parked car, and the speed he’d be able to attain on snow.

He turned back to the kindly woman. “Madam, I must thank you for your aid.” He bowed, then turned tail and sprinted towards the car. He thought he’d made it, reaching forward to snatch a handful of snow off the car’s bonnet.

Grantaire was quicker, though, a frenzied yell of “BANZAI!” hitting his ears almost at the same time as a body hit his back. He staggered, but remained upright, despite the artist currently clinging to his upper body.

“Argh, get off!” He spun in a circle, trying to remove his attacker whose wet coat was dripping down his neck. “Get off, you bastard!”

Grantaire just laughed and held on tighter, rubbing a handful of snow into his hair. “Not until you submit!”

“Submit? To you? You must be joking!”

He staggered again, and this time he went over, the pair of them hitting the snowdrift the street cleaners had created on the pavement.

Now, Enjolras considered himself a mature adult. He paid his taxes on time (despite the damnable fiscal policy of the government), he was never behind on rent, and he ate five portions of fruit and vegetables every day. However, some things would not do, and so it was that he found himself wrestling with Grantaire in a snowdrift in broad daylight.

He put up a good fight, but Grantaire was wily, and in the end he let his limbs drop, breathing hard. “Alright, alright, I submit. Can we get out of the snow now?”

“Why didn’t you say so before?” asked Grantaire angelically, before whipping back onto his feet and pulling him up. Enjolras smacked him around the back of the head.

Covered in snow, and already beginning to drip everywhere, the pair of them fell, laughing, into the flat. “That – that was ridiculous,” Enjolras got out between giggles as he pulled off his outer layers, draping them over the (sadly useless) radiator. “Utterly ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.”

“Says the man who shouted ‘vive la revolution’ before shoving snow down my neck,” retorted Grantaire, pulling off his boots.

“I was being oppressed. It was only right that I rose up against your snow-bound tyranny.” Enjolras unwound his scarf, dropping it to the floor where it landed with a wet plop.

“What am I, the White Witch?”

“Pretty much,” Enjolras replied from inside his soaked sweater.

“What does that make you, Mr Tumnus?”

“Seeing as you basically tried to turn me into a snow statue, it would appear so.” He shivered, now standing in just his tee shirt and jeans.

Grantaire was undoing his plaid shirt, hands looking a little shaky. “Christ, it’s cold.”

“I’ll go switch on the immersion,” Enjolras said. “It’ll be a good half hour, though, ‘til we’ve got hot water.”

Grantaire nodded, down to his one dry layer, a paint stained Ramones tee shirt that reminded Enjolras forcibly of being a nineteen year old making signs with a completely hammered artist _who could still refute all his arguments_. Shaking his head, he darted to the boiler cupboard. This was no time to think back through all the times that Grantaire had fascinated and infuriated him in equal measure.

When he came back, the other man had decamped to the fireside, several blankets wrapped around him. Sneaking a look, he noted that Grantaire’s legs were very bare. Looking down at his own soaked jeans, he swallowed his embarrassment and pulled the wet, clinging material off, before heading into the living room.

Grantaire looked around at his entry. “Christ, you still wear those ridiculous boxer briefs?”

Enjolras felt his face heat, but he grabbed a couple of blankets from the pile in the corner and wrapped them around himself, plunking down in front of the fire. “And you still wear odd socks.”

Grantaire grinned. “What can I say, I’m a creative. Your restrictive paradigm of sock aesthetics will not chain me.”

“Or you’re just too bloody lazy to bother making them match.”

“Touche, Apollo.”

After a moment of silence, Grantaire shivered. “Starting to feel for Mr Tumnus, right now.”

“Someone remind me to call for Aslan,” mumbled Enjolras, huddling deeper into his blankets.

A moment or two more of shivering, then Enjolras had had enough. He scrambled (inelegantly, of course) to his feet. He held out his hand, pulling Grantaire up and leading him to the kitchen.

“Sit,” he ordered, pointing to the chair nearest the Aga, before pulling down a couple of mugs and the hot chocolate powder. He poured in the milk and began adding an injudicious amount of powder to each mug.

“That is an ungodly amount of hot chocolate going into that,” said Grantaire in a tone which indicated an inability to choose between admiration and revulsion.

“On certain things, I’m totally with Remus Lupin – chocolate will always help.” He pressed the button on the microwave, setting the mugs spinning. He looked around, seeing Grantaire staring at him again. It was a bit of a thing with him, he was beginning to realise.

“You… you are utterly, utterly ridiculous.”

“So you continually tell me.”

Enjolras let Grantaire have the first shower, shovelling more logs onto the fire and making more hot chocolate.

He tried to ignore the smell of freshly washed Grantaire as he came over to take the new mug, smiling gratefully, honestly he did. Pheromones be damned.

They spent the rest of the afternoon curled up with their books, the fire crackling merrily. It was simple and wonderful and just on the side of _unbearable_ because Enjolras was starting to realise that there was something going on here, something going on in his head making him feel very different about Grantaire, like all his emotions were heightened.

He’d just gone to the bathroom, at about six thirty, when he heard his friend’s voice.

“I’m ready to be wooed,” called Grantaire, and for a second Enjolras’ heart stopped. Then he realised what the artist was actually saying.

He came out of the bathroom and stuck his head into the living room. “Is that your way of saying, I’m hungry, feed me?”

Grantaire didn’t reply. He just winked.

As the linguine was cooking, he heard Grantaire start up the music again. “Come dance, Enjolras.”

He rolled his eyes, but turned down the heat on the pasta and made his way into the living room. Grantaire grabbed his hand and placed one on his waist, pulling him close. Tentatively, he let his fingers spread around the artist’s shoulder.

They spun slowly around the room to 2000 Miles, Grantaire moving him about with gentle hands. It was… unbearably perfect. Unbearably.

They danced quietly in the shadow of the Christmas tree for another couple of songs, heads close together. Enjolras was about to lean down and just bloody kiss him, but then the timer on the oven went off for the garlic bread.

He tried to get a hold on himself as he ladled sauce onto two plates of linguine, trying to prevent himself from jumping one of his best friends.

Deciding to play up to the wooing thing, he lit two candles on the table, before calling Grantaire’s name.

“Oh, _darling_.” He plonked down in a chair. “I feel very wooed.”

“Shut up and eat your food.”

He resisted the urge to stroke his foot up the arch of Grantaire’s as they ate. He resisted the urge to kiss him after he complimented his ‘woo food’. He resisted the urge to move over and lay his head in the artist’s lap when they’d sat down on the sofa after dinner.

“I feel a Christmas film is in order.”

“What, like we haven’t watched enough of those already?” Enjolras laughed, but gestured to his DVD rack. Grantaire got onto his knees and crawled over, dignity be damned.

Enjolras very definitely did not ogle his arse. No. No. Definitely not a thing that Enjolras did.

“You have the Holiday?” Grantaire demanded, holding up the case.

“Yeah, Cosette and I went to see it when it came out. I… actually, I’m just going to come out and say it, I’m a gay man with no need to conform to traditional gender stereotypes, I love that film.”

“Alright, no need for the spiel,” said Grantaire, holding up his hands, but he was smiling.

They sat pressed up against one another as the film started, legs flush. And Enjolras couldn’t really concentrate on the film, not with Grantaire right beside him, able to feel his every breath.

They’d switched out the lights, the only illumination the fire, the television and the tree’s lights, and the streetlight glow coming in from the window. It was maddening, here in the dark, with Grantaire right next to him, romance in the air from the film he was barely watching.

At the end, Enjolras got up to switch the television off, before coming back to sit on the spread out duvet. There was something heavy in the air, something that had been building all day, for days, maybe for longer. Neither of them spoke, as if unwilling to break the weight hanging in the atmosphere.

The firelight glinted in Grantaire’s eyes, setting auburn notes shining in his curls. Enjolras had never thought of the artist as an attractive man before, but in the last couple of days he’d found himself assailed by his pale skin and riot of dark curls, and his piercing blue eyes.

Grantaire’s eyes flicked down to Enjolras’ mouth, then back up again so quickly he thought he’d missed the tentative glance. Enjolras bit his lip, shutting his eyes for the briefest second in an attempt to get a hold on himself.

When he reopened them, Grantaire was still there, still just inches away, still maddeningly far. He took a deep breath and then surged forward, pressing the flat of his palm to the back of his friend’s neck and pulling his face to his, fitting his lips against Grantaire’s.

The smallest whimper escaped the artist’s mouth, and then his hands were coming up to fist in Enjolras’ hair, dragging him closer, his tongue pressing at the seam of Enjolras’ mouth. Willingly, the journalist opened his mouth, shivering at the drag of lips before Grantaire’s tongue slid against his own. This time it was Enjolras who whimpered, slipping his arm around Grantaire’s waist to pull him closer, wanting nothing but proximity and entanglement and _touch_ as their lips met over and over again.

Enjolras knelt up, arm tightening around the other man in the attempt to drag him against his body. Grantaire mimicked his action, sliding one hand down to his waist, fingers spreading around his side, the sensation of being held a heady one. Every line of his body seemed pressed against the hot weight of Grantaire, the pressure sure to send him mad; he wanted to crawl inside the shorter man and never leave, to tangle up here in front of the fire and never let go.

Grantaire’s lips left his, sliding down his cheek to kiss at the hollow beneath his jaw, sucking and biting at his neck and _Desmoulins_ it felt good, his breath stuttering in a gasp as he threw his head back from pure sensation. He felt the artist smile against his neck, before pressing a kiss to the exact same spot, the evil bastard.

Wanting his mouth back on his own, Enjolras dragged Grantaire’s face back to his, pressing his lips to his. He held the dark haired man’s face in his hands, kissing him desperately, sharing his breaths. Grantaire’s hands fisted in his jumper and hair, tugging at the golden strands, and he whimpered, louder than he’d ever like to admit.

“You – you like that?” Grantaire asked against his lips, voice ragged. Enjolras nodded jerkily, before stifling a moan as the artist pulled again, burying his hand deep in the mass of curls as he sucked another bloodbruise into his neck.

Enjolras couldn’t take much more of this sensory assault without more, without more pressure, without _weight_ on him. He leant back, pulling Grantaire with him, scrambling slightly to get his knees out from under him, and he distinctly heard the shorter man muffle a laugh. But all embarrassment and clumsiness was forgotten as the artist fell on top of him, his body a warm weight, a glorious weight.

He pressed himself against the other man, still kissing him like his lungs would give out if he didn’t. Grantaire tasted like chocolate and mince pies and something else, something heavier, woodsmoke in his raven hair, paint and nutmeg on his skin. It was intoxicating, Grantaire’s mouth and body and scent some kind of drug and he was being sucked in.

He was rock hard inside his jeans, every sensation that washed over him going straight to his cock. He shifted up, against Grantaire, and found the artist was in the same boat, thrusting his hips against his own. God, it was to die for, the synchronicity, the connection of their bodies…

Grantaire’s breath came heavy in his ear. “Do you – do you want this?”

Enjolras shoved his hips up, desperately seeking the friction he so craved. “Yes,” he managed to articulate, fingers scrabbling down Grantaire’s back. “Is it not obvious?”

But Grantaire pulled away, eyes fixed on Enjolras’ face. “I mean it, Enjolras,” and, Christ, he must be serious if he was saying his actual name instead of Apollo, “do you really want this? Want… me?”

Enjolras sat up so fast he felt dizzy, grabbing Grantaire’s forearms. “I want this more than anything, R.” Sliding his hands up the other man’s arms, he pulled him close, looking directly at him. “I want _you_.”

Grantaire stared at him for a long minute, and Enjolras held his gaze determinedly. And that seemed to be all the confirmation he needed, as he rushed forward, knocking the taller man back to the floor, fastening his lips to his.

Enjolras moaned faintly, bringing his hips up to connect with Grantaire’s, acting on instinct. The artist’s breath hitched, lips quickening for a moment, before sliding his tongue into Enjolras’ mouth. He sucked on it, fisting one hand into the mass of dark curls, slipping the other under the hem of Grantaire’s undershirt, digging his fingers into his warm skin. In response, the shorter man made the most debauched sound Enjolras had ever heard, rutting harder against the blond, the sensation set to drive him mad, the glorious connection between their clothed bodies one of the only things he would ever consider worth basing a religion upon.

“ _Please_ say you have stuff,” said Grantaire in his ear, almost begging, and for a second he considered lying just so the artist _kept doing that_ with his hips. But that was just a temporary desire, with a much more deep-seated one making itself known, so he nodded, trying to pull himself back from grinding up against Grantaire. “In… in the bathroom,” he panted out, pushing lightly at the shorter man’s chest so he could extricate himself from the tangle of their bodies and retrieve the very important supplies.

His step was unsteady as he made his way to the bathroom, reaching under the counter to a drawer which hadn’t been opened in a while. As he straightened up, hands now full, he took a second to survey himself in the mirror. Crumpled clothes, hair going everywhere, with two spots of red above each cheekbone, he looked a mess. But an alive mess, a mess very happy to be a mess, judging on the wild look in his eyes (and, he thought, casting a look down, on the tent in his trousers).

He rushed back to the living room, dropping the condoms and lube on one corner of the blanket and plonking back down next to Grantaire, before crawling up his body to kiss him.

The pair exchanged lazy kisses for a moment or two, before Enjolras grew impatient, sliding his fingers back under Grantaire’s shirt.

“Christ, you’re eager,” laughed the shorter man, pulling back a little to look at the blond. Enjolras stuck his tongue out at him. “Can you blame me for wanting your clothes off?” he demanded, not meaning to sound seductive at all. It was a genuine question.

Grantaire’s ice-blue eyes darkened, and his voice came out sounding a lot less cocksure than usual. “Bloody hell, Enjolras – you can’t just _say_ things like that,” he groaned. “Not with the righteous fury eyes, especially not with them, you know what they do to me.”

Deciding that the artist was making no sense, Enjolras leant forward to press a chaste kiss to his lips, before sitting up. He held out his hands to Grantaire to pull him up into a mimicking position.

Grantaire fixed his eyes upon Enjolras, before lifting his cable knit jumper over his head. The blond willingly raised his arms, missing the sight of the artist before the garment was out of his eyeline. He reached forward, tugging Grantaire’s green hoodie off, rumpling his curls even more as he did so.

Thus they went, each taking a piece of clothing off the other, stealing quick touches over the other’s skin, pressing into each other’s arms. Grantaire didn’t laugh when he got to his boxer briefs, but Enjolras could see him biting his lip against a smile.

Enjolras always forgot how much skin there was. How much you could touch with your hands, with your mouth, with your own skin. He was a tactile creature by nature, and this was almost mindblowing, skin to skin with _Grantaire_ who he hadn’t realised he’d wanted until now.

For a second, they lay there, hands half tracing over bodies lit by the flickering flames.

In the firelight, Grantaire’s pale skin shone, red tints in his dark curls. He tipped his head to one side, like a small bird assessing him. “Predictably, you’re even more beautiful with your clothes off. I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

“Come on, you’ve seen me shirtless before.” Enjolras did his best to rebuff the compliment.

“Shirtless, yes. In your ridiculous boxer briefs, yes.” Grantaire reached out to trace a line with one finger down his stomach, setting the muscles jumping beneath the skin at the touch. “Like this… no.” He leant up close, his lips brushing the curls beneath Enjolras’ ear. “This is a wonder that is entirely other.”

“The only wonder in this room,” the blond managed to articulate, “is you. Fuck, you’re –“ But he couldn’t find the words, once again being struck speechless by the artist, so instead he just rushed forward, grabbing Grantaire’s face in his hands and bringing it to his.

Grantaire manoeuvred them so they were lying pressed up together on the quilt, legs tangled, snaking out a hand to pull a couple of blankets over them. The easy push-pull of their mouths, the slide of bare limbs over one another… it was all very simple, simple in the best possible way. Enjolras didn’t know _why he hadn’t done this before_. Christ, had he been blind? Stupid? Both?

“How – how do you want to do this?” Grantaire’s question was quiet, gentle, as if he were afraid to cut into the glowing peace of the room. His hand traced up Enjolras’ side, setting goosebumps in its wake.

“I’d…” His voice came out hoarse, cracked, and he had to try again. “I’d like for you to fuck me,” he said softly, fingers curling into the hair at the base of Grantaire’s neck. “If you’d like.”

Grantaire’s expression was incredulous, just for a split second. “If I’d like. _If I’d like_. Christ, Enjolras,” he mumbled, pulling the journalist into his arms, “do you even have to ask?”

Enjolras licked his lips, then rolled onto his back, pulling Grantaire on top of him.

Grantaire swallowed, then reached over to the little bottle still lying on the corner of the blanket. Enjolras watched him uncap it, trying to control the wild waves of anticipation setting him even more aflame, if it were possible. The sight of the long artist’s fingers being covered in lube was enough to drive him mad, even without the thought of where they were going to be in a few short seconds.

Grantaire leant down to kiss him, sweet and chaste, before shifting down his body. Enjolras shivered as one hand ghosted down his bare side, and the artist’s voice came in his ear. “Spread your legs for me, gorgeous.”

The way Grantaire settled between his parted thighs was something Enjolras was quite miffed he’d never experienced before. It was… perfect. Like some kind of completion.

Pressing a kiss to Enjolras’ stomach, Grantaire’s finger slid across his entrance, slick and cold against the warmth of the room and their bodies. He tried not to react – god, he’d barely been touched – but it had been ages.

All attempts at keeping quiet went out of the window when Grantaire’s finger pressed in. He felt his head tipping back, an incomprehensible moan escaping his lips. Grantaire kissed his stomach again as he slid his finger in and out slowly, Enjolras trying not to whimper at the glorious pressure.

“You don’t have to keep quiet,” he said, amused, looking up at Enjolras, who blushed, then gasped as Grantaire’s finger pressed deeper. “-taire,” he half vocalised, before his face went slack as Grantaire added another finger, twisting slightly on his way in. Oh, god, it was perfect, it was torture and heaven and he was pressing himself back, trying to fuck himself upon those wonderful fingers and oh _god_ they were flexing, and the stretch was divine and maddening and beautiful all at once.

“Ffff-“ he barely articulated, shifting his hips against Grantaire, who groaned lightly in the back of his throat. His long fingers curled inside him, and he jerked, eyes screwing shut. “Fuck, R,” he moaned, “Do that again.”

The same motion, and he moaned louder than ever, shoving his hips in a desperate attempt to reclaim the stretch. Grantaire scraped his teeth across his nipple as he pushed his fingers in again, going deeper, hitting _that spot_ and Enjolras yelled, one hand flying up to bury itself in his head of dark curls.

“God, you’re gorgeous like this,” murmured Grantaire, spreading his fingers inside him as he stroked his hand down his side, touching that spot on his belly which always made him shudder. Enjolras threw his head back, every other heavy breath a near moan. “The firelight in your hair, on your skin – I want to paint this later – and the way you move every time I shift my fingers inside you…” He twisted them against that spot again, and Enjolras swore, his ‘ _fuck_ ’ broken in half by a gasp. “And Christ, the noises you make…”

“Ah, Grantaire,” he panted, trying to open his eyes. “More – please – more-“

“Sure?” He felt another finger teasing his rim as the other two hit deep, and he whimpered. “Yes, yes, need more of you, please,” he barely got out.

Grantaire smiled, swiping his lips across his hipbone before sliding a third finger in. Enjolras’ entire body arched up off the blanket, his erection slamming against Grantaire, who moaned loudly. He spread his fingers again, before curling them, the mess of sensations sure to drive the blond completely insane.

“Now, now now now,” he babbled, no longer able to be embarrassed by the streams of nonsense coming out of his lips _from just fingers_. “R,” and the sound hitched as Grantaire _twisted_ , “fuck me, fuck me please, please now, fuck – “

Grantaire pressed a kiss to his midriff, then pulled his fingers out. The sudden sense of loss had Enjolras whimpering, before the sound of tearing foil ripping through his ears brought him back to reality, this reality, the reality where he was about to have sex with Grantaire, something he hadn’t even realised he’d wanted until a couple of days ago.

The shorter man shifted back between his legs, moving into place. He locked eyes with Enjolras, before reaching up with one hand to stroke the journalist’s face. The tender gesture struck right to the core of him, the look on Grantaire’s face something more profound than he could possibly hope to express.

“Ready?” he breathed.

“I’ve been ready for days,” Enjolras said without thinking, and it was worth it just to see the look of astonishment cross Grantaire’s face. But then he pushed forward, sliding in in one smooth movement and Enjolras felt his back arch, a gasp pushed from his lips.

Grantaire pulled back slower than he could ever have thought possible, his face a picture of focus and intense sensation. “’Jolras,” he mumbled, before pushing forward again, deeper, hitting that spot and Enjolras wrapped his arms tight, tight around him, never wanting to let him go.

A faint sheen of sweat slid between them as their bodies slipped over and around one another, Grantaire fucking him tenderly, _lovingly_ into the duvet-covered floor. Enjolras’ hands roamed up and down his artist’s back, rolling his hips in time with every thrust, living for the groans and cut off swear words in his ear.

God, here in this heat, in this mess of blankets and bodies with the firelight glowing across Grantaire’s cheekbones, this was heaven. This was absolute fucking heaven, like dying and being high and being thrown up into joy all at once. Every stroke of Grantaire inside him – _fuck_ -

“Please,” he found himself gasping, so goddamned close it nearly hurt. “Please.”

Grantaire bit at his neck, moving faster, breaths coming louder in his ear. “Jesus, Enjolras,” he got out, before pressing his lips to the blond’s. His hand wrapped around Enjolras’ knee, pushing it up, and the new angle made him _scream_. Desperate to retain that dangerous, intoxicating surge of _fucking hell yes_ , Enjolras wrapped his leg around Grantaire’s waist, trying to bring him closer.

Grantaire was close, his breaths fast and uneven in his ear, but he reached down to fist his hand around Enjolras, kissing the hollow under his ear, and it was too much, the glorious heat and the slipslide of skin and _Grantaire_ , perfect Grantaire.

“R,” he gasped into the gap between their bodies. “R!” and his voice broke, ungodly sounds rushing from his open mouth as his spine bowed, every limb tightening around Grantaire as he came. The artist wasn’t far behind, throwing his head back, eyes screwing shut as he moaned, “Fuck, ‘Jolras, _fuckfuckfuck_ -“ and then letting out a wordless cry and slumping forward.

Neither of them moved for a minute, merely breathing in sync for a while, chests rising and falling heavily. Then Grantaire snaked a hand out to the towel Enjolras had thoughtfully brought, gently cleaning the pair of them up, before throwing the towel aside and wrapping his arms around the blond, holding him close.

It was so tender Enjolras could have cried. And Enjolras never cried after sex. Ever.

The feeling was so overwhelming that his mouth acted without his permission.

“I really rather wish we’d done that before.”

Grantaire cracked open his eyes, stared at him for a second – and then burst out laughing.

“What? What?”

“ _I really rather wish we’d done that before._ Christ,” the shorter man wheezed. “You really are the most ridiculous human being I’ve ever met, and that apparently extends to your pillow talk.”

Enjolras tried not to huff.

Then Grantaire spoke again, and this time his voice was a lot quieter. “Me too, though.”

“What, really?”

This time Grantaire’s face went slack for a moment with what Enjolras _thought_ was disbelief.

“Oh, you idiot.” Grantaire leant up on his elbow, looking down at Enjolras with an expression that was two parts exasperated, three parts fond. “I’ve been in love with you since I saw you making that speech about equal opportunities from the roof of the library in the pouring rain.”

“ _What_?”

“I mean, Jesus Christ, you quoted the bloody _Smiths_ and Emma Goldman in the space of two sentences, what was I supposed to do?” The artist’s eyes went a bit out of focus. “You looked like a Greek god up there, shouting about representation and equality with your curls getting soaked…”

“But that was… that was _first year_!” Enjolras finally managed to get out. He had a feeling his eyes were bugging out of his head like a cartoon character.

“Er, yeah.” Grantaire looked down, sheepishly.

“Are you seriously telling me you’ve been in love with me for _seven years_?”

Grantaire rumpled his hair. “Well, when you say it like that, it does sound pretty ridiculous –“ Enjolras cut the rest of that sentence off with his mouth, kissing Grantaire so hard he would probably bruise. He tried to put all the want in his body and mind into the kiss, and an apology, for not noticing.

When he pulled away, Grantaire looked a bit stunned. “Okay, seriously, I did not have you down as that good a kisser.” And then he laughed.  “I mean, you seriously didn’t realise? _Really_?”

Enjolras looked down, feeling his cheeks colour. “You may have noticed that I’m a bit crap with romance.”

“Just a bit.”

There wasn’t much talking after that, sleep overtaking their bones as they shifted, loose-limbed, into one another’s arms, drifting off into the night.

It was beautiful, actually, to wake up in Grantaire’s arms. Truly beautiful.

“Mmmm,” sighed the artist. “Morning, gorgeous.”

“Good morning,” Enjolras replied, leaning up to kiss him, morning breath be damned. They kissed for a long time, hands slowly roaming over bodies, relearning dips and curves and planes half-remembered from the night before.

Then Grantaire pulled away. Enjolras tried to follow his mouth, but he was dropping kisses down his chest.

“I’m going to blow you now,” said the artist, conversationally. “Merry Christmas.”

Enjolras barely had time to suck in a breath before Grantaire made good on his assertion.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” he yelled a few minutes later, hands fisting into the duvet, hips jerking. “Grantaire – _fuck_ –“

He lay breathing like a fish washed up on the beach for a moment, before Grantaire slid up to his face. “You – you are _obscene_ ,” he managed to get out. “Your fucking mouth – my _god_ ,” he finished, uncharacteristically unable to formulate proper sentences. So, instead, he did what he knew and reached out, wrapping his fingers around Grantaire’s cock.

Grantaire shouted his name when he came, before flopping his head down onto Enjolras’ chest, panting.

“Christ, I’m glad you decided to jump me last night,” he said, voice still ragged. Enjolras hit him lightly over the head. “You did jump me! You can’t deny it!”

“I suppose not. I was trying not to all bloody day.” He paused. “Actually, for a couple of days, if I’m honest with myself.”

The wondering smile that spread across Grantaire’s face was beautiful to behold. He reached up and traced a hand across Enjolras’ jaw.

Eventually, the need to shower became unavoidable.

“Oh my god you have a clawfoot bath.”

“It’s an Edwardian flat, what do you expect?” asked Enjolras, amused.

“What I expect is you to have a bath with me. Now. In a terribly clichéd rom com way.”

“I’ll get the bubble bath.”

The pair of them sat in the chest deep water, legs tangled up as they faced each other. “This is definitely the best Christmas I’ve ever had,” Enjolras said after a while.

“Not so bad, no,” smiled Grantaire and the smile went to the very heart of him.

They fucked again after lunch, although that wasn’t really the right word. It was too slow, too soft for that, Grantaire moving over and in him with the greatest care and _tenderness_ , pressing kisses to all he could reach.

He cried Grantaire’s name again when he came, so loud that the neighbours probably heard. And if they hadn’t, they must have heard the dark-haired man’s broken shout of his own name.

Somehow, he liked that.

“Can I draw you?” asked Grantaire, after a while. “I want to preserve this.”

“Okay,” he replied softly.

He felt … loved, as Grantaire sat cross legged in front of the fire with his new sketchbook, wearing just his boxers and Enjolras’ jumper. He imagined he could feel every stroke of the pencil against the thick paper, like Grantaire’s fingers over his skin. He wasn’t embarrassed by how he was being drawn, here, sprawled and sated in a mess of blankets.

When he was done, Grantaire put the sketchbook down and crawled over Enjolras, kissing him. He straightened up, and Enjolras pulled his jumper off the artist’s frame. He shucked his boxers as he slid back into the blankets again.

They kissed for what felt like hours, not going anywhere, just revelling in the slipslide of their lips against one another’s, in the chance to be _together with another_. With each other. With Enjolras and Grantaire.

Eventually they pulled apart, lips bruised and eyes bright. They lay on their backs, staring up at the ceiling, watching the patterns the still-falling snow made.

“I think… I really think I might be in love with you,” said Enjolras after a minute. Grantaire’s head whipped up, the surprise in his eyes evident.

“I mean it. Christ, R… you make me feel like nothing else. You make me feel mad, wild… like there’s nothing to worry about. And it’s _magnificent._ ” He fumbled a bit, but he knew what he wanted to say. “I… I love you.” As he spoke, Grantaire’s expression transformed; if Enjolras had thought he’d seen him light up before, it was nothing compared to this. Every inch of him _glowed_.

If this was how he looked when he felt loved, Enjolras would spend every day trying to make him feel it even more.

As they ate dinner, Enjolras thought of something. “I suppose it might be implicit in all of this, but I figure I should ask: will you go out with me?”

Grantaire choked on his food, and for a second, Enjolras thought he was about to lose his new boyfriend to a chunk of avocado. But he kept breathing, and swallowed, loudly – before bursting out laughing.

“You are such an idiot, do you know that?”

“So it would seem.”

“In case the number of orgasms and my actual declaration of love weren’t enough of an answer, consider this a vigorous and enthusiastic affirmation of my desire to be your boyfriend.”

“My boyfriend. I like the sound of that.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “You would, you possessive arsehole.” Enjolras kicked him under the table.

They ate for a while longer, then Enjolras thought of something. “They’re going to have a field day.”

“Of course they will. They’re our friends.” Enjolras frowned a little. Had they all known about Grantaire’s feelings for him? But his boyfriend had plans other than melancholy. He leant forward over the table. “C’mon, let’s go and watch the Narnia films and snog on the sofa.”

The heating man finally appeared on the thirtieth, restoring warmth to the rest of the flat. To Enjolras, that meant only one thing.

“We can fuck on a _bed_ now,” he groaned in Grantaire’s ear as he pressed him up against the wall, who the fuck cared if it was eleven in the morning.

“Yes, yes we can,” whispered the shorter man, grinding his hips against Enjolras’. The blond flung his hand out, pressing the doorhandle down and they nearly fell into his bedroom.

They tore each other’s clothes off – no really, buttons pinged off Grantaire’s shirt – and practically dived onto Enjolras’ massive bed, clutching each other close. Enjolras’ hand went to the bedside drawer, scrabbling for the bottle, pressing it into Grantaire’s palm. The artist clicked it open, and the sound went straight to Enjolras’ cock.

“The sound of that little bottle being uncapped… Christ, I feel like Pavlov’s dog.”

Grantaire laughed out loud. “Only you could make that reference.”

Grantaire prepped him slowly, carefully, the experience still as gloriously maddening as ever. He was starting to think it was just a Grantaire thing, just a part of how chained he was to Grantaire now, part and parcel.  
  
He did fuck Enjolras into the mattress, but the way the artist held Enjolras' eyes, kissed him, gasped his name in his ear, made him feel as if this were something else, more than just sex. To be honest, he knew it.  
  
And when Grantaire pulled out, only to drag Enjolras on top of him, holding his hips tight enough to bruise, he knew it for certain. As he moved on top of his artist in the pale morning light, looking down at his pale chest and tangled curls and rapturous expression, he knew this was love, and it was wonderful.

The rest of the Amis, strangely enough, didn’t seem at all surprised by Enjolras and Grantaire turning up to New Year’s Eve hand in hand. Courf, predictably, hugged them for so long it was getting hard to breathe, and then began loudly pointing out the lovebites decorating each of their necks.  Combeferre ended up dragging him away to get another drink, but not before he pointed out the ‘spectacular’ one below Grantaire’s ear.

“You always were bitey, I suppose. Nice to see you’ve finally directed your oral fixation somewhere,” he said innocently, before walking off.

Grantaire stared, bug eyed, after the secondary school teacher. “I – what – Combeferre?” he demanded, turning to Enjolras.

“Don’t be fooled,” Enjolras said drily. “The man’s as immature as Courf is, he just hides it better.”

Midnight came, and they were all up on the roof terrace, counting down with what felt like the whole of London, the whole of this beautiful city that was so perfect at Christmastime. Enjolras felt Grantaire shift at his side, and turned to face him, biting his lower lip slightly. The artist was grinning.

“Seven – six - “

And Enjolras knew he was supposed to wait, but he couldn’t, not with Grantaire looking like that, and so he put his hands on his boyfriend’s waist and pulled him close, kissing him with everything he could muster, sweet and deep all at once.

From somewhere close by, he heard Bahorel howling ‘it’s too early, you fuckers’, but he didn’t care, too wound up in Grantaire and the beauty of having this, having him, being had and held and loved. Of loving, on a Thameside rooftop, surrounded by the people who had been his family for years and would continue to be.

Big Ben chimed somewhere across the river, and he felt Grantaire smile against his mouth, fingers curling deeper in his hair as the first fireworks shattered against the sky. This… this was perfect.

Eventually, they pulled apart. The amused smile on the dark haired man’s face was glorious. “You know, I believe it’s tradition to wait until midnight.”

“Oh, you know how I feel about traditions.”

The smile on Grantaire’s face widened, his eyes crinkling.  “Happy New Year, Enjolras.”

“Happy New Year, Grantaire.”

Taking his hand in his own, Enjolras turned to face the river, sighing in satisfaction at the feeling of Grantaire pressing against his side as the fireworks burst overhead, reflections shining in the obsidian Thames.

**Author's Note:**

> It is possible to set fire to a kitchen with just a packet of butter. I've done it. 
> 
> Also, for anyone who doesn't live in Britain, the Metro mentioned in Combeferre's famous quote is a shitty free newspaper handed out on our train stations. Front page news has included potatoes shaped like Jesus.
> 
> Many of the Amis' antics are things that I've done or seen at house parties and in my first term of uni. As for the Christmas stuff - well, what can I say? I fucking love Christmas.
> 
> Happy holidays!


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